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✦ ࿔ ⋆ ৎ୭ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ৎ୭ ⋆ ࿔ ✦

❥𝓞𝓾𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓑𝓪𝓷𝓴𝓼

JJ Maybank

જ⁀➴𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐒𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐝? chapter 1 , chapter 2 , chapter 3 , chapter 4 , chapter 5

❥𝓓𝓒 𝓤𝓷𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓻𝓼𝓮

Dick Grayson

જ⁀➴ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝 𝐃𝐢𝐞 𝐀𝐥𝐨𝐧𝐞 chapter 1 , chapter 2 , chapter 3

Damian Wayne

જ⁀➴ 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 chapter 1

જ⁀➴ “Stay here, with me.”

જ⁀➴ Andante, Andante

જ⁀➴ “I Can’t Pay The Rent This Month.”

જ⁀➴ “hidden confessions between the sentences”

❥ 𝓐 𝓢𝓸𝓷𝓰 𝓸𝓯 𝓘𝓬𝓮 𝓐𝓷𝓭 𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓮

જ⁀➴ 𝐌𝐲 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐃𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 chapter 1

❥𝓐𝓷𝓲𝓶𝓮

Sanzu Haruchiyo

જ⁀➴𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐮 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐮 chapter 1 , chapter 2

Haikyuu

જ⁀➴𝐒𝐚𝐲 𝐃𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐆𝐨 chapter 1

OMG, thank you!!! This really brightened my day 🩷 I’m trying my best with my writing, but my only struggle is that I can't seem to come up with good topics.

I normally wouldn't want to clutter the tags like this, but I wonder if there is anyone else who thinks the way I do?

ɞ Damian gets injured on a mission, in a way, because of you. Consumed by guilt and fear, you try to stay away from him for days. But Damian has grown tired of this distance between you, and tonight, he’s going to put an end to it.

ɞ Warnings: Damian is kinda yearner, lack of communication skills, plenty of fluff

The city had long since fallen asleep. Not completely though, Gotham never truly slept. The frantic pulse that defined it during the day had quieted into something slower. The distant hum of traffic drifted through the night air. Somewhere below, a train rumbled beneath the streets. Rain earlier that evening had left the rooftops glistening beneath the moonlight.

Damian crossed them without making a sound. Robin's cape barely stirred behind him.

Normally, after patrol, he would return to the Cave, file his report, exchange exactly three sentences with his father, ignore whatever attempt Grayson made at conversation, and disappear into his room.

Tonight, however...

His feet had carried him somewhere else. To an apartment in a secluded corner in the middle of the city. He leapt skillfully from one roof to another and stopped on the top floor of the red-fronted building. He stopped outside your window.

The curtains weren't drawn. Amber-colored light from the dim room lamp was illuminating the room. He could see books stacked on the windowsill. On the table, there was a cup of tea you had likely made hours ago and chocolate wrappers scattered about.

And, you.

You sat beside the window with your back resting against the bed, one knee drawn close to your chest. Your hair fell loosely over one shoulder, catching the moonlight until it almost seemed to glow. Even though you ran your fingers over the cover, you weren't reading the book. The book lay open in your lap seemed to have been forgotten for a long time.

You were simply looking outside, toward the stars. You had always done that. Jon once joked that you looked at the sky the way other people looked toward home. Damian hadn't understood what he meant then. He did now.

You looked peaceful, too peaceful. The kind of stillness that wasn't calm at all. It was as if you could fall asleep at any moment. The moonlight wrapped around you like a mother tonight, helping you forget what had happened recently.

You hadn't smiled in over a week. Not really. Only those small, practiced smiles people wore when they wanted everyone else to stop asking questions.

His hand rested lightly against the window. He should leave. Damian had already tried speaking to you three times. Each attempt had ended the same way. The moment you saw him, your shoulders would tense up. And the moment he approached you, you would flee to the farthest corner of the room. Then you would politely excuse yourself before he could say a word. He had fought assassins with more courage than you had shown in looking him in the eye these past days.

No.

That wasn't fair.

Damian knew you weren't afraid by him. You were afraid of yourself. Of what had happened, and what could almost happened. He knew that, he hated that he knew it. Damian exhaled quietly. Then, with his gloved hand, he gently tapped the glass a few times. He didn't want to scare you.

Even though you were lost in your own silence, you didn't budge. With just a slight movement, you turned your head toward the window, to Damian. You simply stared, then you immediately looked away.

He frowned. You had already seen him, you knew he was there. Yet you made no move toward the window. Instead you closed the book in your lap, carefully placed it beside the table, and rested both hands together as though you suddenly found them fascinating.

A silent invitation for him to leave.

Damian stared through the glass. ‘Absolutely not.’ The uncomfortable silence between you was going to end tonight. He tested the window. Unlocked. Of course it was, he thought. He hated your habit of not locking the doors and windows. Damian slid it open with practiced ease.

Cool night air rushed into the room. You closed your eyes. "I knew you'd do that."

"You left me no choice." His voice was calm, almost gentle. It possessed a lightness ill-suited to Gotham's ruthless nights.

You still didn't look at him. "You could have used the door."

"You would not have answered."

"No." you said, shrugging your shoulders.

"You admit it."

"I wasn't trying to hide it."

Damian climbed inside, pulling the window closed behind him. The room immediately felt smaller and warmer. The silence between you weren’t awkward. It was heavy. Like both of you were carrying the same conversation in your heads but neither knew where to begin.

His eyes wandered across the room almost absentmindedly. Everything was unmistakably yours. From the posters on the wall to the colorful flowers you gathered to tuck between the pages of your books. Everything was you. And a tiny potted sunflower sitting on the desk despite Gotham's miserable weather.

His gaze lingered there. "It's alive."

You looked over instinctively. "The sunflower?"

"Yes. I did not think that was possible in Gotham."

"The window gets enough sunlight. I've kept it alive."

"Of course you do."

A faint smile almost appeared on your lips, but disappeared before it could fully form. Damian noticed that. He noticed everything when it came to you. You looked paler. The lack of sleep showed on your face, and the circles under your eyes had become more pronounced.

"You should be asleep," you said quietly.

"I could say the same."

"I wasn't tired."

"You have not been sleeping."

You blinked. "Did Jon tell you?"

"He did not need to." I can see everything related to you without any help.

You stood up as if to prevent whatever were about to happen. "I'll make tea."

"You dislike tea when you cannot sleep. You drink warm milk."

You froze halfway toward the door. Without turning around, you asked quietly, "How do you know that?"

"I pay attention."

It was neither too much nor excessive. It was four simple words. Perhaps it was because he was honest and sincere, but those four words had settled into a warm spot in your chest. You lowered your head. "I didn't realize.”

"I know."

You laughed once, but it wasn't a happy sound. "I guess I haven't realized a lot of things recently."

Damian watched you carefully. You still weren’t looking at him. You hadn't looked at him once since he walked in. Even now, you faced the bookshelf instead. As though speaking to worn leather bindings was somehow easier than speaking to him.

He took one slow step closer. Not enough to crowd you. Just enough that if you turned around you would find him there patiently. You could hear his breathing now. It was steady and alive.

Alive.

This word made you bite your lips. After all, lately, you had nothing else on your mind but this word. You hated how relieved that sound made you feel.

"Does your shoulder still hurt?" you asked suddenly.

"No."

"And your ribs?"

"They healed."

"The stitches-“

"I can move it normally."

You nodded slowly. As though checking items off a list you had repeated to yourself every night. You closed your eyes. "Good." Nothing else. Just, good.

Damian looked at you for a long moment. Then, quietly, he asked, "Have you been keeping track?"

You didn't answer, and there was no need to. Damian already knew. He knew you were aware of every injury and every detail of the treatment, down to the smallest procedure. And he also knew that this wasn't just a duty for you, it was because you were genuinely worried. Every single day.

He looked at the back of your head. His expression softened almost imperceptibly. When he spoke again, his voice was lower than before. "Y/N." Just your name.

You closed your eyes, taking a shaky breath. Because somehow... The way Damian Wayne said your name, with impossible care, as though it were something precious enough to break if spoken too loudly hurt far more than if he had come here angry.

And for the first time since the mission, you understood that this conversation could no longer be postponed.

The distance between them wasn't measured in steps. It was measured in nine days. Nine long days of averting his gaze and hesitating to speak. Nine days of pretending that if neither of you acknowledged what had happened, perhaps the memory of that mission would fade. It hadn't for both of you.

You were exhausted. He could see it. You had always carried emotions the way some people carried injuries; quietly, refusing to let anyone notice until they became impossible to ignore.

Normally, he admired that resilience. Now... He hated it. Because you were carrying something you were never meant to carry alone. He folded his arms.

"Do you know," he said quietly, "what Grayson asked me yesterday?"

You didn't answer immediately. "I assume he asked something irritating."

"He asked if we had argued." Your fingers tightened around one another.

"I told him we had not."

"You didn't."

"No." Another silence.

"Then he asked if I had somehow offended you. I told him I did not believe so. Then he asked why you disappear every time I enter a room."

"I'm sorry."

"I did not answer him. Because I did not know." His voice remained calm. There wasn't a trace of accusation in it. Only honest confusion.

"I still do not."

You lowered your head. "I know."

"No." He shook his head gently. "I do not think you do."

You finally turned, but not enough to face him completely. "I know I've been avoiding you."

"You have."

"I know it was unfair."

"It was."

"I know I should have explained."

"You should have."

You gave the smallest nod. "I just..." The words wouldn't come. Damian waited. He had learned, mostly because of you, that silence was not always something to fill. Sometimes people simply needed somewhere safe for their thoughts to land.

He would wait. Even if it took all night.

You laughed softly. A tired laugh. You took a breath, pressing your hands against your cheeks. "I've rehearsed this conversation so many times."

"Have you?"

"Every night."

"And yet?"

"And yet now that you're actually standing here..." you looked down. "I don't know how to begin."

"You are beginning."

"Am I?"

"You are speaking."

You smiled faintly. "You make everything sound so simple."

"It often is."

"It really isn't."

"For you?"

You nodded. "For me." Another quiet settled between them.

Then Damian spoke again. "I came here because I am tired."

You frowned slightly. "You are?"

"Not physically." His eyes never left yours. "I am tired of walking into rooms and watching you leave them."

Your chest tightened.

"I am tired of wondering whether I have done something you cannot forgive."

You immediately shook your head. "No."

He continued, "I came here because..."

He stopped. Searching for words was not something Damian Wayne often did. Words had always obeyed him. Commands and strategies, those were easy. This was not. “I dislike uncertainty and unfinished matters."

"I know."

"I dislike not understanding." His voice grew quieter. "And I do not understand this."

He looked at you, not as Robin, not as the heir to the League, not as Batman's son. Just as Damian. "I know what happened on that mission." His eyes softened. "I know why you blame yourself."

You looked away immediately. "I know," he continued, "because if our positions had been reversed I would have blamed myself too."

Your eyes lifted back to him. "I understand guilt Y/N." He almost laughed.

"I was raised by people who believed guilt was weakness, but it never disappeared. It merely became quieter." He looked toward the window for a moment. "When I was younger I believed every injury someone suffered beside me meant I had failed."

"I counted them."

"Counted them?"

"The mistakes." His expression remained unreadable. "The people I could not protect."

"The missions that went wrong or the lives that changed because I was not fast enough." He looked back at you. "I stopped counting."

"Why?"

"Because someone told me something."

You waited.

"He said..." Damian's voice unconsciously shifted, quieter, almost echoing Bruce's calm certainty. "'If you carry every wound forever, eventually you'll have no strength left to prevent the next one.'"

The room became still. "I did not understand him then."

"And now?"

"I do." He took another step, more close. Not enough to invade your space, but enough to remind you he wasn't leaving.

"I came tonight because..." He hesitated again. His next words were almost painfully honest. "...because I miss you."

As fractions of a second chased the seconds, your breath caught in your throat at his words. Damian is always honest, everyone knew that well. But the way he told you he missed you, with that look of longing in his eyes, was more than just a sign of honesty.

Damian continued before courage abandoned him. “I miss speaking with you. I miss you asking entirely unnecessary questions during patrol simply because you dislike silence. I miss the scent of your perfume that fills my nostrils every time you walk past me and freezes my brain for a few seconds. I miss gazing at your hair as it flows behind you with every movement, and imagining touching it.”

A tiny smile touched his lips. "I even miss you telling me to be polite." Your eyes shimmered.

"I have spent nine days pretending your absence did not matter." His voice dropped. “It does, Y/N."

More than you know. He didn't say those words, and he didn't need to. They were already there. Between every sentence. Between every breath. “I cannot continue pretending otherwise."

You stared at him. "You climbed through my window to tell me you missed me?"

"I climbed through your window because the door seemed inefficient."

Despite the recent low spirits, the absurdity of the situation made a small laugh escape your lips. The sound was soft and bright. The first genuine laugh he'd heard from you since before the mission. Something inside Damian loosened. He hadn't realized how desperately he'd wanted to hear that sound again.

"I wasn't sure you'd let me in."

"I wasn't sure either."

"So I removed the variable."

"You basically broke into my room."

"I entered."

"You broke in Damian."

"The window was unlocked."

"That's not the point."

"It seemed relevant."

You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. "You're unbelievable."

"So I have been told."

In that brief moment, the smile on your face faded and gave way to something more delicate. "You really missed me?"

He looked at you as though the answer should have been obvious. "Every day."

You felt tears gathering again that wasn’t because you was hurting. Because those two words carried no hesitation. No embarrassment or attempt to protect himself. Just truth.

Every day.

"I thought..." your voice trembled. "I thought maybe seeing me reminded you of what happened."

"It does." You flinched, and that caused him to continued immediately.

"It reminds me that you were terrified. The sorrow in your eyes and the fear of losing someone. I remember that more clearly than I remember the pain."

His gaze never left yours. Another silence settled. It was gentler this time. The kind that comes when two people stop defending themselves. Damian drew one slow breath. "I did not come here to ask why you were avoiding me actually."

"No?"

"No."

"What did you come for?" He answered without looking away.

"I came because if something is hurting you..." His voice became impossibly soft. "I would rather stand beside you while you carry it than watch you carry it alone."

The words hung in the room long after he finished speaking. It was an offer to stay. Even if you couldn't yet tell him how to let him in.

Damian's words remained between them. A quiet truth he had offered you without asking for anything in return. You had spent days trying to convince yourself that distance was kindness. That avoiding him was a way of protecting him. That if you didn't see him, you wouldn't remember the sound of his breathing becoming weaker.

That if you didn't look into his eyes, you wouldn't have to face the impossible truth that he had almost died because of a choice you made.

But standing there now seeing and hearing him. You realized you had never been protecting him. You had only been running away from the fact that you were afraid. Afraid because he mattered too much.

"Damian..." His expression softened immediately at the sound of his name.

You took a step toward him. Then another. Damian didn't move. He had faced enemies who could tear apart buildings. He had walked into rooms knowing there was a chance he would not walk out. But somehow, watching you slowly approach him with tears in your eyes made him more uncertain than any battlefield ever had.

You stopped in front of him. Close enough that he could feel the warmth of your presence. For a moment, you simply looked at him. Really looked. Not at Robin or at the warrior trained by the League.

At Damian.

The boy who always pretended he didn't need anyone and had come to your window because he missed you. Your hand slowly lifted. Damian's breath caught slightly. You reached toward his side, toward the place where the wound had been.

Even though the injury was healed, you remembered exactly where it was. Your fingertips gently touched the fabric over his ribs. Almost as if you expected him to disappear. Damian stayed completely still. Your touch was too careful, like he was something fragile. And that, more than anything, affected him.

"Y/N.” Your fingers moved slowly over the spot.

"You almost died." Your voice was barely above a whisper.

Damian looked down at you. "I did not."

"But you could have." The answer came immediately. It was o ainfully honest. "You could have."

Your fingers trembled slightly. "I know you keep saying you recovered. You keep telling me you're fine, and I know you are."

You swallowed. "I know your heart is beating and I know you're standing here. But I..." Your voice broke. "I still remember when it wasn't."

This wasn't about the injury. Not really. It was about the moment after. The moment when everyone else knew he was going to survive. But you had been trapped in those few seconds where you didn't know. Where you thought you were losing him.

"I remember holding you," you whispered.

Your hand remained against him. "I remember seeing blood and I thought, ‘No.’" A tear slipped down your cheek. "I didn't even think your name."

Damian's brows tightened. "I just thought no."

You laughed softly, painfully. "Like if I refused to accept it, it couldn't happen."

You stopped Damian when he opened his mouth. "No, let me say this."

You looked at him with an expression he rarely saw. Guilt. "I need you to understand why I left." His jaw tightened slightly, because he directs all his attention toward you in order to listen.

"I wasn't angry at you and I wasn't avoiding you because I didn't want to see you."

Your fingers curled slightly against his side. "I was avoiding you because every time I looked at you I saw what almost happened."

A pause.

"And worse. I saw that it was because of me."

"No."

The answer was immediate. You looked up. "No?"

"No."

"Damian-"

"No." His voice remained controlled, but there was something beneath it. "You are not taking responsibility for my decision."

"I made the choice." He said.

"You did because of me. Because I hesitated."

"Because you saved someone."

"I made you have to choose."

"No." His eyes sharpened. "You are changing the facts Y/N."

You looked away. "I know what happened, and I know what I saw."

"So do I."

"I know you were hurt because you protected me."

"And I would do it again."

You looked back at him. The certainty in his voice almost hurt more. "Why?" The question came out quietly. "Why would you say that?"

"Because it is true."

"You don't understand. I was so scared." Your voice cracked. "I've never been that scared." You lowered your forehead against his chest.

The movement surprised him, but not because he disliked it. Because Damian Wayne was not used to people reaching for him without fear and expectation. But you weren’t taking. You were simply holding on.

Your voice were muffled against him. "I ignored you because I didn't know how to face you. I couldn't look at you and see that you were okay."

You gripped the fabric of his suit lightly. "Because a part of me kept thinking that I didn't deserve to see you okay."

Having such thoughts running through your mind for days broke something inside Damian. He slowly lifted his hand, then he placed it gently on the back of your head. A careful and protective touch.

"You are wrong. You are completely wrong."

"Damian..."

"You don't get to call yourself a failure because you saved someone."

"But you almost died."

"Yes." The fact startled you. He didn't deny it. Didn't dismiss it. He acknowledged it. "And I understand why that frightened you."

His hand moved slightly, gently smoothing your hair. "But my injury does not belong to you." You looked up. "It was not your burden. It was my choice. And I need you to believe me."

Your eyes searched his. "You really don't blame me?"

Damian almost looked offended. Hemade you focus on him by gently saying your name. "I have punished myself for things no one else even remembers. I would never do that to you."

"Why?" The question was almost childlike.

Why you? Why were you different?

Damian had an answer. He had always had an answer. He just had never allowed himself to say it. "Because you are you." He looked away for a brief moment, almost frustrated by his own inability to explain something so obvious.

"Everyone else..." He paused. "Everyone else I can separate. Mission. Objective. Risk, but you..." His eyes returned to yours. "I cannot."

The confession was quiet, but it carried more weight than any grand declaration. "You matter differently."

I know that is not logical and it is not strategic. I know someone like me is supposed to calculate everything." His thumb brushed away the tear on your cheek. "But when it comes to you I stop calculating."

You whispered, "I don't want to lose you."

His expression softened. "You won't."

"You can't promise that."

"No." He admitted quietly. "I cannot promise I will never be hurt."

"But I can promise..." His fingers gently squeezed yours. "that I will always come back to you if I can."

Tears had returned to your eyes, but this time it wasn't out of fear or guilt; it was out of relief. From finally allowing yourself to believe him. And Damian, who had spent his entire life learning how to fight learned something far more difficult that night. Sometimes the bravest thing a person could do was let someone love them.

You murmured while your arms wrapped each other in the darkness of the night.

"I missed you too."

I love Damian.

I haven't been able to write much lately; no ideas are coming to mind at all. I hope inspiration slaps me in the face soon.

ɞ You tell Damian you can't pay the rent this month.

ɞ Warnings: fluff, but you can see a tiny bit of sexual tension at the end.

The apartment was quiet in that rare, comfortable way; no comms, no alerts, no urgency. Just stillness. Damian sat on the sofa, one arm draped along the back, the other holding a book open with practiced ease. His posture was relaxed in a way very few people ever saw. And you were sprawled across him like you belonged there. Which at this point you did. Your head rested against his chest, legs stretched along the couch, one arm loosely draped over his side.

Damian turned a page. His hand, almost absentmindedly rested against your side, fingers lightly tracing slow, idle patterns.

Neither of you spoke for a minuate but then you shifted slightly, tilting your head just enough to look up at him. “Damian?”

He didn’t look up immediately. “Mm.”

Your tone changed with something soft. “I need to talk to you about something.”

That made him pause. He put the book he was holding down on the other side of the chair and straightened up with you in his lap.

“What is it?”

You clasped your hands together, just enough to look nervous. “I… I don’t think I can pay the rent this month.” You said, sighing.

Damian only blinked once. “I’m sorry Hayati, but what?”

You looked down, avoiding his eyes committing to the performance. You tried not to laugh at the confusion on Damian's face. “I’ve just had a lot of… expenses,” you said, quieter now. “Unexpected things.”

He leaned back slightly. Damian pushed a few strands of hair that had fallen across your face behind your ear, studying you like something in this equation had fundamentally broken.

“Y/N.”

“Yes, my love?”

“We do not pay rent.”

You nodded solemnly. “Right.”

“And you have never paid rent.”

“Yes.”

“And you own this property.” He said, as if stating an obvious truth, "You know I had your name put on the title deed, right?"

“Yes.”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. Damian spoke as his hand slid from your face to your waist. “Then clarify your statement.”

You finally looked up at him trying very hard to stay serious. “I just think,” you said carefully, “it would be irresponsible of me not to bring it up.”

Damian’s expression didn’t soften, but it changed just enough to notice something “You are testing me,” he said.

Your lips twitched. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“You are simulating financial distress in a scenario where it is structurally impossible.”

“I wouldn’t say impossible-”

“It is impossible.”

Damian's hand tightened around your waist as you bit the inside of your cheek. He leaned forward slightly now, eyes narrowing you. “Oh,” he said quietly. “This is one of those… trends.”

You lost it, just a little. A small smile breaking through. “Maybe.”

Damian exhaled slowly through his nose. “You are aware,” he said, voice flattening in that very particular way, “that I am a physician with multiple income streams and access to-”

“I know baby,” you cut in, stepping closer, smile growing now. “I know.”

“You are also aware,” he continued, ignoring that, “that I would not permit you to assume financial burden regardless of circumstance.”

“I know that too.”

“And yet you chose to present this scenario.”

You nodded, completely unapologetic now. You could even call that shameless, because you were having so much fun. “Yes.”

“I don’t understand why.”

You tilted you head slightly, your eyes were soft but unmistakably amused. “Because I wanted to see what you’d do.”

“You wished to observe my response,” he said.

“Mm-hm.”

“And what outcome were you expecting?”

You shrugged lightly. “I don’t know. Maybe you’d panic a little.”

“I do not panic.”

“I’ve seen you panic.” You said, laughing. Because you'd seen him panic, especially when it came to you.

“You have seen me adjust rapidly.”

You smiled. “Sure.”

Damian leaned in, just slightly. Close enough that his voice didn’t need volume.

“If this were real,” he said quietly, “there would be no discussion.”

Your smile softened just a fraction. “Oh?”

“You would not be responsible for it,” he continued. “You are not responsible for any of it.”

Your expression flickered briefly, because even knowing him, hearing it like that still did something. “You say that like it’s obvious,” you said.

“It is.”

“So you wouldn’t make me sell my things? Or I don’t know, take on a second job?”

Damian’s expression shifted instantly, offended on a conceptual level. “I would prevent you from attempting either.”

You laughed softly. “I know you would.”

“You find this amusing, aren’t you?”

“Very.”

“You derive enjoyment from fabricating problems I cannot logically solve.”

“Yes.”

Something in his expression shifted again. “You are aware,” he said slowly, “that if you wished to test my responses, there are more… effective methods.” He said, his hand sliding from your leg down to your hip.

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“You could simply ask for something,” he said.

Your breath hitched, barely there. “Like what?”

He shook his head from side to side as if he was stating the most normal thing in the world. “Anything. You would receive anything you want.”

“Even if I asked for something unreasonable?”

“I would evaluate it,” he said.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I would still provide it.”

You huffed a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet you persist.”

After a brief pause, you added, becoming serious. “For the record, I can pay rent.”

“I am aware.”

“I just don’t.”

“I am also aware.”

“And you don’t let me.”

“That is correct.”

You smiled, leaning just slightly closer. “Good.”

Damian didn’t move away. “Your concern is resolved, then,” he said.

“Completely.” You said, and murmured as your hands traced across his chest, “Actually, I think I want something right now.”

A glint appeared in Damian’s eyes, and he leaned back, encouraging the small movements of your hips.

“Will you provide for me?” you said while your lips curving towards him.

Damian murmured as he reached for your bra strap inside your shirt. “Always.” And that was the only answer needed to bring your lips together.

😝​😝​

ɞ While on a secret mission at some gala, a handsome fella asks you to dance. Damian watches you from the corner. Will he do something about it, or will he let jealousy consume him?

ɞ No warnings beside jealous Damian, and Jon is acting kinda wisely.

The gala is all glass and gold.

The music filling the ears was elegant and low. Chandeliers scattering light across polished floors. Wealth and power wrapped in silk and smiles, exactly the kind of place secrets like to hide.

Jon adjusts his cuff for the third time. “I feel like I’m going to break something just by standing here.”

“You likely will,” Damian replies, straightening his own jacket with precise, practiced movements. “Try not to embarrass us.”

“I don’t embarrass us.”

“You exist. It is sufficient.”

You stood between the two as they engaged in their usual petty squabble. Damian glanced at you out of the corner of his eye as he sipped his drink. Although he would have preferred to avoid eye contact as a gentleman, it was proving quite difficult tonight. You look different tonight. Each strand of your hair seemed to shine, woven delicately through like threads of sunlight caught and hidden. And there you stood, gracefully dressed in silk, a dress that seemed made just for you. How could he not look at you?

You look like you belongs here, more than either of them.

“You look perfect,” Jon says, offering you a quick, sincere smile.

You smile back, a little shy. “Thank you sir, you look handsome too.” You said that to your best friend. Compliments coming from Jon were easy to give and a pleasure to accept.

Damian doesn’t say anything, but his gaze still lingers a fraction longer than necessary. Then shifts away. “Focus,” he says. “We are here for a reason.”

"I know," you murmured, and put down the glass you'd been holding as if it were an accessory. "Let's split up."

The target is somewhere in the crowd. A broker and information trafficker. Dangerous, but careful. All of you split subtle, unspoken. Jon drifts toward the balcony levels. Damian toward the perimeter.

You stay central visible and approachable. You are the bait, if needed. You hate that part, but you do it well. Too well.

“Enjoying the evening?”

The sound you heard was quite smooth, you immediately turned around. The man standing before you fits the setting perfectly; tailored suit, easy confidence, a smile that’s meant to disarm.

“I am,” you say politely. “It’s… beautiful.”

“It is,” he agrees, while his eyes don’t leave you. “Though I think you might be outshining it.”

There’s a pause.

A small one.

It seemed like everyone except one person was focused on complimenting you tonight. The compliment was subtle and kind. And despite its simplicity, it was enough to make someone blush. A slight warmth rose to your cheeks, and it was visible in the lights.

And across the room, Damian sees it. But he shouldn’t. There are dozens of people between them; conversations, movement, distractions. They were involved in a truly important mission. But he sees it anyway. Of course he does.

And for a second, just a second he forgets the mission. Because someone else put that expression on your face. He didn’t created that rosy glow that illuminated your beautiful face. Why didn’t he?

Jon, from the balcony, catches it too. His lips press together, trying very hard not to react. “Oh no,” he mutters under his breath.

Back on the floor, you tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, composed but not untouched by the attention. “You’re kind,” you say.

“Observant,” the man corrects gently. “There’s a difference.”

He offers his hand not intrusive, just… confident.

“I’m Adrian.”

You hesitate for a moment then places your hand lightly in his. Because there was nothing wrong with it. You was simply adapting to a kind man who complimented you.

“Y/N.”

Across the room, Damian’s fingers curl slightly at his side. Not enough to draw attention, but enough to feel it.

“Y/N,” Adrian repeats, like he’s testing the name. “It suits you.”

Jon walks quietly beside Damian a moment later, voice low. “You good?”

“I am fine.”

Jon glances toward the dance floor. “You don’t look fine.”

“I am on mission.”

“Uh-huh.”

A beat. Then, “Dude, you’re staring.”

“I am observing.”

“You’re glowering.” Damian doesn’t respond. Because now the music shifts. Something slower, softer and the worst romantic.

And Adrian turns slightly back to you, offering his hand again. “May I have this dance?”

“Yes.” There’s no pressure or force in it. Just a kind invitation.

The music begins. Adrian guides you gently onto the floor, one hand settling at your waist, respectful and measured. You follow easily, graceful, light on your feet. You’re not trained for this, but you adapts You always do. You gave him a soft smile, a little uncertain at first, then more natural as the rhythm settles.

Damian watches, every step and every turn. Every moment someone else is close enough to touch you. Someone who is not him.

Jon shifts beside him. “Okay, before you do something insane-“

“I will not,” Damian cuts in.

“You look like you’re about to challenge a civilian to a duel.”

“I am evaluating a variable.”

Jon snorts quietly. “That variable has a name, and you hate him already.”

Damian’s gaze doesn’t waver. “He is irrelevant.”

On the floor, Adrian says something, close enough that you leans in slightly to hear and laugh. Why wouldn't you have done it? It was just a harmless little joke.

Seeing your genuine smile, Damian's jaw tightens.

Because that sound, that expression he doesn’t earn it like that. He doesn’t get easy moments with you.

“Okay,” Jon says quietly, watching him now instead of you. “Yeah, you’re not fine.”

Damian exhales slowly through his nose, but his next words come out sharper than intended. “She should be more cautious.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “She’s dancing, not infiltrating a war zone.”

“He is unknown.”

“So are most people at parties.”

“That does not make it acceptable.”

Jon studies him for a second. “You trust her, right?”

After a few seconds of silence, he answered. “Yes.”

“Then let her dance.”

Damian doesn’t say anything, because logically Jon is correct. But logic has very little to do with the feeling sitting heavy in his chest. On the floor, the song slows toward its end.

Adrian spins you once smooth, practiced and you follow, your hair catching the light in a soft, luminous arc. For a moment Damian swears you look like something untouchable. Something radiant. Something not his to guard. Not his to stand beside. And that thought cuts deeper than anything else.

You are a little flushed, still caught in the warmth of the moment as Adrian says something low and easy, his attention fixed entirely on you.

And across the room Damian has had enough. He’s already shifting forward when Jon catches his arm. “Don’t.”

Damian doesn’t even look at him. “Release me.”

“No.”

That gets his attention. Damian turns, eyes narrowing slightly. “Jon,”

“If you go over there,” Jon says, voice low but firm, “and make a scene, you’re going to ruin it for her.”

“I am not going to make a scene.”

“You always make a scene,” Jon counters quietly. “Just… quieter than most people.”

Damian pulls his arm free. “He is lingering.”

“He’s talking.”

“He is hovering.”

Jon exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose briefly. “Okay, listen to me for one second.”

Damian doesn’t want to, that much is obvious. But he pauses barely. Jon steps closer, lowering his voice even more. “If you walk over there just to interrupt them,” he says, “don’t.”

“Not unless you’re actually going to do something about it.”

Damian’s gaze hardens. “Clarify.”

Jon jerks his chin toward the dance floor. “If you’re not going to ask her to dance, properly, then don’t interfere.”

A few seconds of silence fell between them after Jon's words. Because that is not what Damian was going to do. He was going to stop it. End it. Remove the problem. Not… replace it with something else.

Jon watches the realization flicker across his face and presses, just slightly.

“She deserves to have fun, Damian,” he says, quieter now. “No whatever this is you’re doing.”

Damian’s jaw tightens, because he knows what Jon means. Control or protection that feels like restriction.

“She accepted the invitation,” Jon continues. “She’s enjoying herself.”

Then, “If you take that away from her just because you don’t like it… that’s not you protecting her.”

That one lands deeper. Damian looks back toward the dance floor. You are still there. Still smiling and still open in a way you never do during missions. And someone else is the reason for it. Not him. And it’s his fault. Damian knew it, even though he tried not to see it. His fingers flex once at his side.

Jon’s voice softens, just a fraction. “But if you are going to step in…” he says, “then do it right.”

“She deserves someone who can keep up with her.”

Damian exhales, just once. Decision made. “Very well.”

Jon blinks. “Wait, what does that-” But Damian is already moving.

“Oh, you’re serious.”

The next song begins. It is slower than the last. It’s like designed for closeness. On the floor, Adrian shifts slightly closer again, clearly intending to continue.

“Another?” he asks, smile easy. You hesitates just briefly, then a certain hand appears between you two.

“May I?” You breath catches because you know that voice. Damian stands there, composed, immaculate, eyes fixed on only you, not Adrian or the room.

Just you, like always.

For a split second, the world narrows. Adrian glances between you, reading the shift instantly.

“Friend of yours?” he asks.

“Yes,” You answer softly.

Damian doesn’t wait or look at Adrian again. His attention never leaves you as he extends his hand properly this time. Not abrupt or forceful. On the contrary, it's a very warm invitation, just as you deserve. You look at him, really look. There’s something different in his posture that night. It's as if he's afraid you'll say no.

“I thought you didn’t dance,” you say quietly.

“I do not,” he replies. “For most people.”

Something warm flickers in your expression. And this time when you places her hand in his, there’s no hesitation. Behind them, Adrian exhales lightly, stepping back with a polite nod. “I’ll concede.”

Damian doesn’t acknowledge him. He’s already guiding you into position.

Damian doesn’t just dance. He calculates. Every step precise. Every turn controlled. Every shift in weight deliberate. But it doesn’t feel rigid, not with you. With you, it becomes something else entirely. Like he’s memorized your rhythm without ever being taught.

His hand at your waist is steady and firm, but not restrictive. Guiding your every step instead of forcing. There’s a flicker of surprise in your eyes as he spins you. “You’ve done this before,”

“Yes. It helps me survive at the galas my father organizes.”

“You said you don’t dance.”

“I said I do not dance for most people.”

Your lips curve slightly. And there it is again that softness he can never quite prepare for. “You’re very precise,” you murmur.

“It is efficient.”

“That’s not why people dance.”

He meets your gaze. “No,” he admits. “It is not.”

The music carries both of you. Closer now. Quieter.

The world around you fading into something distant and irrelevant. For once Damian isn’t watching the exits. He isn’t scanning threats or calculating angles. He’s focused on one thing.

You.

Your elegant moves, the way you trusts his lead without question. The warmness of your hand rests in his like it belongs there.

And for the first time tonight the tension in his chest shifts. Of course, it hadn't completely disappeared, but there was something gentler and warmer pressing down on it.

“You are enjoying yourself,” he observes.

“I am,” A small pause. “Are you?”

Damian stills for half a fraction of a second. Then resumes, smoother than before “Yes.”

It’s quiet.

But it’s real.

Your smile deepens just slightly, and you don’t look away. As the music slows toward its end, Damian doesn’t release you immediately. Not like that guy did. It’s like he’s not quite finished yet. Like he’s not ready to step back into distance.

You notice and this time you don’t step away first either. The final note fades. Applause rises again, softer this time. His gaze lingers on yours, unreadable to anyone else.

“If another requests your attention,” he says quietly, “You are not obligated to accept.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“I know, but I’m glad I accepted yours.”

Damian doesn’t respond immediately, because there isn’t a strategic answer to that. Only a truth. And truth is still something he’s learning how to handle. You step back slightly, as if to return to the edges of the room, to reset and breathe.

Damian doesn’t let the distance fully form.

“Y/N.” His voice is quieter now.

You turn back to him. There’s still a trace of warmth in your cheeks, a softness in your expression that hasn’t quite faded from the last dance.

“Yes?”

For a moment, he says nothing. Which, for Damian, is not hesitation. It’s calculation and a choice.

“I intend to remain at your side for the duration of the evening.” There’s something beneath it now; less like strategy, more like decision.

You study him gently. “That sounds less like a mission update.”

“It is not.”

He continues more quietly, “If you would permit it, I would request another dance.”

You almost laughed as you observed Damian after his question. The slight hesitation in his voice and the subtle nervousness in his posture… It was something you might see at a middle school prom.

“I’d like that,” she says.

Damian inclines his head once, formal and his hand finds your again, more naturally this time. Just like he’s been thinking about it.

The music draws them back in, But this time it’s more different. There’s less space between them now. And it was not an accident or anything else, it was entirely heart-related.

His hand settles at your waist again, but lower this time, firmer, anchoring you without hesitation. And your hand rests against his shoulder, more strangers this time. And when you begin to move there’s no adjustment period. Both of you fall into it like it’s something shared.

“You’ve improved,” you murmurs kindly.

“I do not recall performing inadequately.”

Your lips curve. “You didn’t. But this feels… different.”

“It is.” He doesn’t elaborate, but you feel it anyway. In the way he holds you. He doesn’t leave space for interruption this time.

“You’re not watching the room,” you note quietly.

“I am aware.”

“That’s unusual.”

“It is unnecessary.” The music slows further, drawing you closer still.

Your hand shifts slightly against his shoulder, fingers curling just a little into the fabric of his suit, not gripping, just… there.

“You seemed… upset earlier,” you say carefully.

Damian’s jaw tightens briefly. “I was… dissatisfied.”

“With Adrian?” You say, a hint of something lighter in your tone.

“Oh, it does have a name too.” You almost laughed in surprise when he said that. Damian was always known for his controlled words. It was so rare for him to lash out like this. The blush on his cheeks showed he hadn't expected such a reaction himself too. You decided to drop the subject before it got any more ridiculous.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Damian was thinking something like in for a penny, in for a pound when he replied. “Yes.”

You just watch him, something warm and knowing settling in your expression. “Then why Damian?”

Damian exhales slowly, because there are many answers. Strategic ones, practical ones, safe ones. He chooses none of them.

“He was close to you,” he says.

“I’ve danced with people before.”

“That is not equivalent.”

Another step.

Another turn.

Closer still.

His hand steadies at your waist as you moves, guiding your back in seamlessly. “You were smiling,” he adds, quieter now. “To him.”

You caught slightly off guard by that. “I smile a lot.”

“Not like that.”

The words slip out before he can refine them. Again.

“Damian…” He meets your gaze fully now.

“I did not like that it was because of someone else.”

There it is. It was not polished or strategic. Just truth, raw and unstructured. The music seems to fade around you. Or maybe it’s just that neither of you is listening to anything else anymore.

Your expression softens, not in pity. In understanding. “You could have asked me to dance first,”

“I am aware.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did not.” After waiting a few seconds, he added. “I am correcting that now.”

That pulls the faintest laugh from you. “I noticed.”

“You don’t have to compete with anyone,”

“I am not competing. I am ensuring clarity.”

“Clarity about what?”

His gaze doesn’t waver. “Where you stand.” The words are quiet, but they carry something heavier now. Something that wasn’t there before.

You search his face. And for once Damian doesn’t hide from it. He lets you see it.

All of it. The tension whenever he’s with you.

Your hand slides just slightly from his shoulder, not away, but closer, fingers resting more securely near his collar, the space between you closing that final, unspoken inch.

“I think I know,” you say. “But I’d rather hear you say it.”

That is the moment he almost retreats. Almost. Old instincts pulling back, closing off. Rebuilding walls. But he doesn’t. Not this time.

His hand at you waist steadies. It was grounding himself as much as you.

“I find your presence…” he starts, then stops.

“Necessary.”

Your lips part slightly, because you understands his language. What he means.

What he can’t quite say yet, and it’s enough for now. Because you knew he was trying, and how difficult it was for him.

“I think I like being necessary to you,” you murmur.

“Good.” The word settles between you like something fragile and newly formed.

It isn’t just agreement. It’s relief. It’s certainty, spoken in the only language Damian has ever trusted. Simple and deliberate.

The music swells softly around you, strings weaving through the air like silk pulled taut between two points. The chandeliers above scatter light in slow, golden fractures, and for a moment it feels like the entire room has softened, like the world itself has stepped back to give you space.

Your fingers rest more securely against his collar now, brushing the fine fabric there. You can feel the steady rhythm beneath it. It is faster than it should be. Faster than he would ever allow anyone else to notice.

But you notice anyway.

“You’re very intense tonight,” you murmur, your voice barely louder than the music.

His gaze doesn’t flicker. “I am always intense.”

“That’s true,” you admit, a quiet smile touching your lips. “But this feels different.”

Another turn, slower this time.

He doesn’t spin you away as far. Doesn’t allow the space to widen like before. Instead, he keeps you closer, guiding you back almost immediately, as if distance itself has become… undesirable.

“It is,” he says. There’s a softness to it now. Not weakness. Not uncertainty. Just honesty, stripped clean of its armor.

The warmth in your chest deepens.

Around you, the gala continues with laughter, quiet conversations, the faint clink of glasses, but it all feels distant, blurred at the edges. The world has narrowed to the space between your hands, the quiet gravity pulling you closer with every step.

“You’re not even pretending to focus on the mission anymore,” you point out gently.

“I am aware.”

“That’s twice you’ve said that.”

“Because it remains true.”

You huff a soft laugh, the sound light and unguarded. It lingers between you, and for once, he doesn’t feel like he’s missing it. Because this time, it’s because of him.

His hand shifts ever so slightly at your waist, not possessive, not forceful… just certain. Like he’s memorizing the exact place you fit against him.

“I will resume focus when necessary,” he continues, quieter now. “At present… it is not.”

Your gaze softens at that, something almost fond flickering there. “You’re choosing this?”

“Yes.”

The music slows further, the melody dipping into something quieter, more intimate. Couples around you begin to fade into stillness, swaying rather than dancing, but Damian doesn’t stop. His movements become smaller, more subtle, but no less precise. As if even now, he refuses to let the moment slip into something passive.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You’re holding me differently.”

It came quietly, “I know.”

“Why?” This time, the answer takes longer, but not because he doesn’t have one. Because he is choosing which truth to give you.

“Because I did not like letting you go before.” The words land softly, but they carry weight. Your breath catches slightly.

The air between you shifts again, something deeper settling beneath the surface. Not rushed. Not overwhelming. Just… real. Your hand tightens ever so faintly against his shoulder, and this time, neither of you pretends not to notice.

“That’s a dangerous habit,” you say, though there’s no real warning in it.

“I am aware.”

There’s the faintest ghost of a smirk at the corner of your lips. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he replies, voice low, steady, “you accepted my invitation.”

“I did.”

“And you remain.”

Another step.

Another breath.

“I do.”

The final notes of the song begin to approach, soft and lingering, like they don’t quite want to end either. Neither of you moves to pull away. Not yet. Not when everything feels like it’s finally aligning into something that makes sense.

Silence follows; brief, suspended and Damian doesn’t step back. Not this time. His gaze holds yours, steady and unguarded in a way that would be unrecognizable to anyone else in the room.

“Y/N.” Your name is quieter now. Not a command. Not a call for attention. Something closer to… careful.

“Yes?” A fraction of a second passes.

“When this concludes,” he says, “I would prefer if you remained with me.” Just with him. He’s just asking for you.

Your expression softens fully now, something warm and unmistakable settling into your eyes. “I thought you already decided that.”

“I did,” he admits. “I am informing you.”

A soft laugh escapes you, brighter this time. “That’s not how requests work.”

“I am adapting.”

“Slowly.”

“Yes, but intentionally.”

That does something to you. Something steady and real.

You step just a fraction closer, closing the last of the space between you; not out of necessity, not because the dance demands it, but because you choose to.

“Then I’ll stay,” you say.

His shoulders ease. It is barely perceptible, but it’s there. The tension that had followed him all evening loosens its grip, replaced by something steadier. Something warmer.

“Good,” he repeats, and this time, it sounds different.

Just sounds right.

The applause around you rises again, signaling the end of the dance, the return of the world, the continuation of the night. But neither of you rushes to leave the moment behind. Because now there’s something worth staying for.

English is not my first language! So please do not hesitate to politely point out if I make a mistake. I won't be reporting any physical characteristics for Y/N in the story, it's just as it should be. I'm writing this story just to unwind, it's nothing serious. Please keep that in mind and enjoy it together! Thank you for reading!

ɞ A night with Damian Wayne and the reader who can't stop moving in her sleep.

ɞ No warnings, just a tiny little bit fluff

Unfortunately, Damian was used to nights like this. To you moving like a machine in your sleep. He was someone trained by the Assassins' League, he could perform surgery with his eyes closed, but he'd never encountered anything like this. So it was quite normal for him to think he was attacked on the first night you slept together.

You always fall asleep first. Curled on your side, blanket tucked under your chin like you’re trying to keep the world out. Your breathing softens quickly, your body going still in that rare, fragile way that makes him pause for a second longer than necessary.

A sharp exhale leaves him as your knee knocks into his ribs again, not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to register. You mumble something incoherent into the pillow, turning over for what must be the third time in the last minute, dragging half the blanket with you.

Damian stares at the ceiling. Given how light a sleeper he is, it was perfectly normal for him to wake up from your kicks. “You are a hazard,” he mutters quietly.

No response, of course not. You’re deeply asleep, peaceful, even. Which makes absolutely no sense considering the fact that, seconds later, you shift again. This time rolling toward him, your arm flopping across his chest like it belongs there.

You make a soft sound in your sleep, something between a sigh and a hum, and press closer, your forehead lightly resting against his shoulder now. He doesn’t move, not immediately. Because now you’ve settled.

Your breathing evens out again, warm against his neck. Your hand relaxes but doesn’t let go, still loosely anchored to him like you might drift away otherwise. Damian watches you in the dim light. The way the fine strands of your hair fall across your face, how your lips curve with every breath you takes…

You are warm and alive. Just like in the prayers he said every night before going to bed. Damian stops speaking. Because this is not disruption anymore. This is something else.

Your movements don’t stop. Not completely. Every few minutes, there’s a shift, a restless adjustment, a soft kick, a repositioning that makes no tactical sense whatsoever.

But each time you end up closer him. Like your body, even without you awake, is searching him. Finding him. Choosing him.

And Damian notices the pattern, of course he does. After once he notices that he stops trying to correct it. The next time your leg drapes over his, he doesn’t move it away. The next time your hand curls into his shirt, he doesn’t loosen it.

Instead, he adjusts himself. Shifts just enough to make room for you. To keep you from slipping. To keep you here with him.

His hand comes to rest lightly at your back not restraining, not holding just there. A point of contact. A quiet assurance. You settle not completely still, apparently you’ll never be that, but calmer.

Damian murmured as he ran one hand along your leg. “You are compromising both of our positions.”

Your expression is soft, unguarded, completely at peace in a way he rarely sees. His other hand shifts slightly brush your back, just enough to keep you close. “Acceptable,” he murmurs quietly.

He whispered into your forehead, as if to leave alone with only the darkness of the night. “Stay beloved.”

“Stay here, with me.”

Your fingers tighten in his shirt, a small, unconscious insistence. Your leg shifts just enough to hook more securely around his, anchoring yourself to him like you’ve decided, without ever waking that this is where you belong.

Damian stills, because he understands that. Not in the words, but in the way his arm tightens just slightly around you. In the way he doesn’t let go. In the way, for the first time, he doesn’t feel the need to remain on guard.

He closes his eyes slowly, his hand resting steady and warm against your back, his thumb tracing the smallest, quietest pattern there over and over, like a promise he doesn’t know how to say out loud.

And this time when Damian closes his eyes, he doesn’t wake up again. No movement, no instinct, and no the ghosts of training carved into his bones. Because you are here. Because you chose him, even like this.

And somewhere between your quiet breathing and the way you hold onto him without knowing, Damian lets himself believe, just for tonight. For once everything is exactly where it should be.

ɞ You're reaching out for something to hold, and looking for a love where the climate is cold. Trying to feel life amidst manic moves and drowsy dreams. You and him, soul alone. And soul really matters to you, too much.

| Damian Wayne x Fem!Reader | chapter 1

content/tw: death, angst with fluff, mentions of depression, use of y/n, characters are adults, reader has powers, english is not my first language.

Chapter 1 /

You can’t remember how you got to this point. How you ended up alone, behind the cold walls of a house. Despite the warm blood running through your veins, you couldn’t understand how you could feel this cold. You were light itself, warmth itself. How could you be this cold now? How could the inside of you be this empty and numb?

In truth, you remember everything, you just need to think a little. That’s all. After all, how could you forget the helplessness that tore through you while you were on your knees?

The earth beneath your knees was wet. Blood mixed with mud seeped between your fingers; no matter how hard you pressed, you couldn’t stop the flow. There was still warmth beneath your palms, but it wasn’t yours. It was theirs. And it was slipping away fast. They were slipping from your hands: the man you could call the love of your life, and your closest friend. Amid screams and gunfire, each passing second carried them farther from you into death. Every breath came hard; helplessness wrapped around you from all sides.

“No… no, look at me.” Your voice had thinned beyond recognition. Your throat burned as if torn raw from screaming. You took his face between your hands; his head tried to fall loosely back, and you wouldn’t allow it.

“I’m here. Please don’t go. Please don’t go.”

His eyes tried to focus. They found you, or you hoped they did. His lips moved, but what came out was only a broken breath. Blood traced a thin line from the corner of his mouth. You wiped it away, frantic, with your trembling thumb.

“You’re going to be okay,” you said. It was a plea, not a promise. You leaned in as if you could make one, though you knew you couldn’t keep it. “Damian, can you hear me? I… I’m here.”

Another rasp broke beside you. When you turned your head, a dark shadow was spreading beneath your closest friend’s chest. You reached out, both ways at once, a desperate motion trying to reach them both. As if, if your arms were long enough, you could pull them out of this moment.

“Hold on,” you told him too. “Both of you… please. Help is coming. It has to.” But the sounds were drifting away.

Gunshots thinned, then dulled as if heard from underwater. The world narrowed; only three breaths remained: yours, his, the other’s.

The green-eyed boy’s fingers clasped yours for a moment. It was a weak, trembling touch. As if you were the one dying, not him. As if you might shatter at any moment, vanish at any moment.

There had been countless moments when you could have gone; and thousands of times he had squeezed your hand like this. Because of his warmth, you had always managed to stay. And this time, he was the one who needed your warmth.

His eyes found you once more. “Don’t be afraid…” His voice scraped through a rasp. “I’m here.” Maybe it was just the shape of his lips, maybe memory deceiving you. But in that moment, you were still his first concern. Not himself, bleeding out.

“I’m not afraid,” you said immediately, not realizing the lie. Your teeth were chattering. “I… I’m here.”

The words trembled as they left your mouth, but you closed your hand tighter around his. The faint pressure between your fingers was like the last echo of the bond that had once tied you to life. As if, if it loosened, you would scatter too.

“I know,” he coughed. His chest rose unevenly, then fell. Breathing had become a battle for him. With every inhale, something sounded as if it were tearing beneath his ribs. But his gaze… his gaze was still on you. The edges of his pupils trembled from the effort of focusing.

Your eyes slid sideways. “Jon?” you called, fragile. His lips were parted as if he’d been about to say something, as if a half-finished sentence still hung there. You reached and touched his shoulder, the cold was spreading fast.

“Y/N,” came a rasping voice. As your hands moved through his hair, you thought you saw a smile. A scream had already begun to rise in your throat. As you waited for his closed eyes to open, your hand went to his pulse. No. A void, a silence formed. Your hand still rested on his strong shoulder. You shook him once, twice.

Nothing changed. The world cracked there; a soundless fracture.

“No,” you whispered, but you didn’t know where the sound went. To him, or to yourself? With blood pouring from your own wounds, perhaps you were next? The sun was already nearly surrendering to darkness, you should follow after it.

The green-eyed boy saw. The place your gaze had gone, the shoulder your hand rested on, the stillness there. His fingers tightened once more in yours with a final effort.

His voice broke. “Look at me.” You turned to him immediately. It was an order. As always. Even as your world shattered, you were still his priority, because he wanted you to be.

“I’m here,” You said again. This time harder, more urgent. As if keeping the words in your mouth would keep him alive.

His eyes moved over your face; blood on your brow, mud on your cheek, your trembling lips. There was more worry than pain in his gaze. Only for you, as always. “You’re shaking,” he said between breaths. The words came in fragments, each torn free.

“No,” you said again, faster. “No, I-”

“Lie,” he whispered. A faint, nearly invisible smile ghosted his mouth. You knew that expression. The one he wore when he caught you, when he stripped away your mask. “You… always do this.”

“Don’t let go of my hand,” you blurted. The sentence slipped out uncontrolled. “Okay? Don’t… don’t let go.” Your fingers dug into his hand. Your nails pressed into his skin. You didn’t fear hurting him, pain meant life.

“I won’t,” he said, and it was perhaps the greatest lie he had ever told you. Perhaps his last.

His breath snagged on you. His eyes closed for a moment—just a moment. You shook his hand at once. “Damian! Dami, look at me.” Your voice was breaking. “Don’t sleep. I’m here. Can you hear me? I’m here.”

His eyes opened again. This time it took longer to focus, but of course they found you. They had always found you. It could never be otherwise. “I know,” he said, almost soundless. “That’s why… it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” you snapped. “It’s not. You, you’re staying. Do you hear me? You always stayed, Damian. You always stayed with me. You stay this time too.”

“Let me see you… one last time.” With his final strength, the boy’s hand lifted and tried to touch your face. When his bloody palm reached you, his fingers found the curve of your cheek. The touch was almost nothing, yet its direction was sure. He still knew you. The bone beneath your skin, the trembling muscle, the small scar at your eye’s edge. It was his favorite path.

You leaned into his hand. As if gravity lived there. “I’m here,” you whispered. “I’m not going anywhere.”

His fingertips slid from your cheek to your temple. As if searching, tracing a memorized map one last time. His thumb brushed beneath your eye, found the wetness there -your tears you hadn’t noticed. He exhaled weakly. A shadow of a smile, broken by pain.

“Don’t cry,” he said. The sound was a rasp dragged from deep in his throat.

You held his hand against your face. Your own fingers supported his so they wouldn’t fall. You pressed his palm harder to your cheek, as if transferring warmth. As if you could return the heat of your blood.

“Look at me,” he said with immense effort. You already were. You couldn’t look away from him, yet you leaned closer. Your forehead nearly touched his. Your breath struck his face -warm, frantic, alive. His was fractured, a breath already cooling.

“You’re beautiful,” he said. “You always were.” The sentence hung in the air. In this place, at this moment, in this state, it was nonsense. Perhaps that’s why it was truth.

“Shut up,” you said at once, with a breaking laugh. “Don’t talk. Save your-”

“Listen,” he whispered. The word came out with sharp effort. His fingers trembled on your cheek. “Don’t… let go of me.”

Your eyes widened. “What? I’m- I’m here. You’re the one leaving, you-”

He tried to shake his head. Barely perceptible. “In your heart,” he said. “There… don’t let go.”

“I won’t,” you said. This time it wasn’t a lie. “I promise.”

His fingers tightened once more on your cheek. As if sealing that promise. Then strength left him. His hand grew heavy in yours. “Say my name,” he whispered.

You did. Damian. Dami. Your Damian. Your lips trembling, breath breaking. Once. And again. You repeated each syllable like a knot to hold onto. His eyes closed. You pressed his hand harder to your face.

“No! No, look, I said it. Did you hear? I’m here. I-”

His thumb slipped from your cheek to your jaw, then into emptiness. You caught his hand before it fell. You clasped it in both of yours. Pressed it back to your face, again and again. “Look,” you breathed. “You said look at me. Look, I’m here Dami.”

But he wasn’t looking anymore. The bloody imprint left on your cheek began to cool in the shape of his touch. You kept holding that hand, burying your face into his palm, waiting as if you could call back warmth.

Nothing returned.

And you, for the first time, were truly alone.

The earth was cold, the night was cold, the wind was cold, but those weren’t new. What was new was the body in your arms suddenly heavy, no longer giving heat. When the warmth left, you seemed to leave with it.

The light inside you, bound to their breath, began to gutter out.

“Go,” you said, not knowing to whom. To the guns, the screams, the sky. “Enough.”

No one heard. Or everyone was too far away. Prayers were useless; you begged your gods, their gods. Why did none of them hear?

You didn’t let them go. Letting go was accepting. Accepting was living. You stayed on your knees, pulling both bodies to you, your face buried in blood and earth. Time passed; minutes, hours, you didn’t know.

You lifted your head; only the faintest threads of sunlight remained, just enough for you to feel.

You joined their cold hands together with yours in desperate union. Words you didn’t know how you knew spilled from your mouth. You reached for the light within you. You begged that your desperation be enough. As the last rays of the dying sun spread from your hands through your whole body, you begged the deep fissure in your heart. You begged the final drops of sunlight.

Take me, give them.

No one heard, but something answered.

At first it was very faint, like summer rain. Like an old memory waking beneath skin, in the innermost folds of bone. You were still bent over, foreheads touching theirs, when a warmth stirred between the three joined hands beneath your palms. It wasn’t yours, you were already burning.

This was something coming out of you.

“Take me,” you whispered again. Your lips touched earth. “Give them.”

As the sun sank behind the horizon, its last rays shattered, but you saw them. Because you were it. No one else did; mortal souls couldn’t. The light wasn’t in the air, it remained in you. That golden warmth you had carried for years, breathed without noticing, circulating in your veins… for the first time found direction outward. The light you had used for years in battle emerged from you for another purpose.

From where your three hands met.

First came tingling. Then a kind of burning. Then a dissolving. As if a sealed door in the center of your heart opened and daylight began to pour out. Your chest ached as if splitting from within. Your breath caught, but not from fear. From emptying.

Light flowed from your core. Into their cold fingers, beneath cracked skin, into frozen veins. When it touched the blood in the soil it hissed, as if scorching darkness. Beneath their skin, thin golden lines spread. The gray dullness of dead flesh struck briefly with red-gold.

“Take it,” you snarled through your teeth. Your eyes burned now not with tears but with light. “Take it all. All of it.”

Your chest collapsed in pain. With each beat of your heart, something tore loose and poured away. As if not blood but sunrise was being pumped through your veins. As if you had birthed this morning’s sun and exhaustion now claimed you. Your shoulders shook. The earth beneath your knees scorched; thin steam rose.

The light grew.

It spread into their chests, their throats, their heads. Passed over shattered tissues. Coiled around stilled hearts. And you felt it -the bond, the invisible warm tether that had kept them alive for years being ripped from you and woven into them.

The pain… was beyond language. Yet you let the power flow out of you and give life to theirs. “Live,” you whispered. “Please… live.”

The light stopped staying in you. The golden glow behind your eyes began to fade. Your vision dimmed, your ears roared. Cold, for the first time, rose from the core-from where your heart had been. When the last drop flowed out, something broke inside. It was foreign, and terribly quiet. As instants chased seconds, one of the bodies beneath you breathed.

Very shallow, very fragile, but a breath.

Your head jerked up. Your eyes struggled to focus; with the sun gone the world was black. That gentle warmth was gone, the delicate beams of light gone. But you saw: their chests rising, falling.

Life had returned.
From within you.

Your hands still held theirs, and now warmth didn’t flow only one way. Their fingers, faintly, answered yours. Circulation had begun again. There was life. There were beating breaths.

You wanted to laugh but couldn’t, because there was nothing left inside you.

No light. That ancient solar warmth you had carried for years was gone. The inheritance of your ancestors, the small inner glow that had always protected you, was gone. You reached for it out of habit the little cord. But no. You were empty. Dry as a desert. In your chest remained only a deep, echoing void. As if a star had been torn out, leaving a dark crater.

On the horizon the sun fully set. And you could feel it completely now the bond had left you. It wasn’t in the sky either. It would not rise again. It had slipped from the current. The source of dawns had been pulled from you and rekindled in two separate hearts.

They were breathing.

You were not.

With that hollow inside your knees, you pitched forward. Your body fell. You didn’t release their hands—but you were no longer the one holding. They were. Very weak, half-conscious, but alive. Your cheek touched earth. Cold wrapped you completely. Darkness rose from within. The last thing you felt was two pulses beating against your fingers.

Now there was only you.

And your sun chose not to rise.

This is the first time I'm writing something about Damian, I'm so excited! I don't think it will be a story longer than five episodes. I hope you enjoy reading it. I also publish my stories on my Ao3 account, don't forget to say hi to me there too.

ɞ Y/N Cameron is trying to escape from her little bubble. Sad inside in this life, unsatisfied, prayin’ and waitin’. Was she meant to feel happy that her life? Was just about to change? Once she cross the line, will she be satisfied?

| JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader | Chapter 5

Warnings: breathing problems, smut, death, mental health problems, english is not my first language.

Chapter 5

The Camerons' house was illuminated by the midday sun, as usual. It was like a calm coastline after a storm. Things had changed, things had been damaged, but tranquility had returned. Y/N clutched the package tightly as she walked towards the room next to the stairs. Last night had been pretty intense. It was very different from other Midsummers, which unfortunately didn't bode well.

"Hey," she said, trying to make her presence known.

When she entered through the open door, she saw John B, with whom they will now be sharing a home, tossing and turning awkwardly in his new bed. She was glad that he and her sister weren't kissing or cuddling.

“Oh, what’s up Y/N?” Said John B.

"I wanted to stop by and see how you were doing after last night."

John B shifted, pushing himself up against the headboard with a small wince, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that the danger had passed.

“Still breathing,” he said lightly. “Which feels like a win, all things considered.”

“That’s definitely a win.”

Y/N gave a faint smile and stepped further into the room, closing the door behind her with deliberate care. She glanced around—everything was still untouched, too perfect, like the room hadn’t decided whether it accepted him yet.

“I bought you something,” she said, lifting the package slightly.

John B’s brow furrowed. “You didn’t have to.” Sarah's smile widened, and she looked at her sister, thanking her.

“I know.” She crossed the room anyway and placed it on the edge of the bed. “But I wanted to.”

He peeled back the paper carefully. Inside was a not very ostentatious —soft, worn at the cuffs—and a small brown envelope tucked beneath it.

"Think of it as a welcome-to-home gift." And she added, "By the way, don't even think about selling it, I bought it with the money I earned working at the golf club."

“Thanks again.” He said it quite sincerely. “And thanks for that thing too, I know you helped Sarah.”

She couldn't help but glance at the door before speaking. “You have to tell me later what you found. I made a lot of sacrifices for that map."

“Like what? Even though you was keeping watch, dad caught me.”

“I flirted with Topper." she said, as if revealing something apparent.

“I have to admit, Sarah, this is a difficult thing."

“Right! Vlad gets me sister, not you.”

John B looked at her with a weary expression. "Great, Y/N knows too?"

"She read the note you gave me."

"Don't worry, I don't judge you. I've seen worse." Sarah gently slapped her sister's arm, not hard enough to hurt her.

Sarah walked to the window and cracked it open, letting in the salt air. “Rules are simple,” she continued. “Don’t wander the house at night. Avoid Rafe. And if Rose asks you anything—say as little as possible.”

Y/N frowned. “You make it sound like a witness protection program.”

“It kind of is,” Sarah replied.

“Oh by the way, Rafe does not stay at here for a while.”

Sarah looked at her with a confused expression. “What do you mean?”

Y/N sprang up on her tiptoes. “Well, a few things happened, and because of that dad kicked him out of the house."

“I didn’t understand a shit.”

She sighed, as if wanting to drop the subject. "It's the usual stuff, Sarah, don't get on my nerves."

John B walked to the window, resting his palms against the glass. Outside, the island looked deceptively peaceful. Like nothing bad had ever happened there. Like it wasn’t built on secrets and sunken things.

“This doesn’t mean I’m one of you,” he said quietly. Not accusatory. Just factual.

Sarah stepped closer. “It doesn’t have to.”

Y/N joined them, standing on his other side. “You’re still you,” she said. “This house doesn’t get to change that.”

He glanced at her, searching her face as if checking whether she meant it. She held his gaze steadily. John B understood he was in love with Sarah while standing on top of the wooden shack, but her sister was a completely different story. He had known her for a long time, albeit from a distance. He remembered their brief conversations while he worked there, and all of them were different from the usual Kook's behavior. She greeted him every time she saw him. She'd give him one of the beers he'd helped steal, and she was also always the one who delivered his paychecks. John B didn't use that word often, but Y/N Cameron was a quite likeable? He tried to recall a wrongdoing she had committed, but he couldn't remember one. And on top of all that, yesterday she had also helped steal the map.

“Okay,” he said finally. God only knows how others would have reacted when he will bring Cameron sisters along. While Kiara was still angry about Sarah, he was bringing another bomb with him.

“Okay for what?”

“Y/N is just as involved in this as you are. She can come to the meeting at Chateau.”

Y/N stiffened almost imperceptibly.

Sarah turned to John B, surprised. “Wait—what?”

He shifted his weight, suddenly very aware that he’d just said something that couldn’t be taken back. “I mean… she already is involved. Whether we like it or not.”

Y/N let out a short, disbelieving breath. “John B, you don’t have to—”

“I do,” he interrupted gently. “You helped us. You covered for Sarah. You took heat from Topper. From your brother.” His jaw tightened at the last part. “You’re already in this.”

Sarah searched her sister’s face. “You don’t have to come if you don’t want to.”

Y/N hesitated. For a fraction of a second, the house seemed to close in around her—the white walls, the expensive silence, the expectations humming in the air like electricity. This was the line. One step further and things wouldn’t be easily undone.

Then she straightened her shoulders. “If I don’t go,” she said calmly, “I’ll spend all day pretending nothing’s happening. And I’m really bad at pretending lately.”

John B nodded, relieved. “Okay. Then it’s settled.”

“Not exactly,” Sarah said, narrowing her eyes. “Kiara already hates me. Pope barely tolerates the idea of me. JJ—”

“They will survive,” John B said dryly. “We Pogues always does.”

Y/N’s lips twitched despite herself.

Sarah sighed. “Fine. But you need to understand something.” She turned fully toward her sister now, voice softening. “Once you step into that place, it’s not just Pogues and Kooks anymore. It’s dangerous. For real.”

“I know,” Y/N replied. “And, I'm not going to let you have all the fun by yourself.”

Hours later, Y/N and Sarah were sitting side-by-side on the sofa on the veranda of Chateau. The wood was warm beneath them, sun-bleached and splintered in places, like the house itself—held together by stubbornness more than care. Pope sat to their left, posture stiff, like he already regretted agreeing to this meeting. JJ lounged beside him, one foot hooked on the railing, all restless energy and sharp edges. Across from them, Kiara paced, arms folded tight, boots scuffing the boards.

Y/N had greeted Pope briefly when they entered, but hadn't looked at JJ. Or rather, she couldn't. Their last meeting had been in Midsummer, and Y/N couldn't understand why she felt uncomfortable around him. They didn't know each other, and she couldn't expect JJ to be completely nice to her just because she'd helped him. Still, it felt strange.

“You brought her in here. Actually you brought two of them here! Was there a buy one get one free campaign?”

“What the hell is that mean?” Sarah said.

“It’s mean just because you left your nice homes and came here, does that mean you have become one of us!"

“I dunno.”

“Look, all I care about is they cut come out of your share John B.” Y/N laughed sarcastically when JJ said that.

“Is there any problem Sugar?”

She, recoiled from the irritating nature of her nickname. That nickname is for family, not for him. Y/N finally looked at him. Slowly. Deliberately. “No,” she said evenly. “Is there one?”

JJ’s mouth twitched, half a smirk, half something sharper. She really looked like sugar in that dress today. But her tongue was pretty sharp, so actually JJ could call her sour sugar. Her dad must have paid tons of money for that dress and necklace on her pretty neck.

“Just checkin’.” He said. “You laughed like I’d personally robbed you Sweetcheeks.”

“You did,” she replied without missing a beat. “Emotionally. Back at the Island Club.” And the moment she said that, she froze. Why had she said that? Why? What the fuck are you doing Y/N? She couldn't control herself, and the words just spilled out of her mouth.

Sarah let out a quiet groan. “Please don’t start.”

Kiara stopped pacing and turned on them both. “No, actually—let’s start. Because I don’t get this.” She gestured between Y/N and Sarah. “You two don’t just get to show up here and suddenly be part of this.”

Y/N shifted on the sofa, folding her hands together. “I didn’t say I was.”

“Then what are you?” Kiara pressed.

"Oh my God Kiara!” Y/N snapped before she could soften it. “Why are you suddenly being so rude to me? Just a few days ago we were painting a surfboard together!" Kiara sighed, turned away, and left the question unanswered. Sarah ditched her, but things weren't that bad between her and Y/N.

“I told you.” Sarah said.

“Told him what exactly? That you are a liar?”

“No,” her sister shot back. “That you’re a shit-talking bitch.”

“How dare you?”

"Then watch how you talk to my sister, Kiara!" Sarah cut in, sharp as a blade. The tension thickened. John B glanced at Sarah—really looked this time—and saw something he hadn’t expected. She wasn’t playing about her sister, that’s her line.

“You two show up here like it’s a field trip. Like you can just step out of your Kook lives and play outlaw for a night, and guess what? We are not a vigilante gang. Neither of you will ever be Robin.”

Y/N clutched the pillow in her lap, as if trying to suppress the rage welling up inside her. "Yes, we're Kook, Kiara, and you know what? At the end of the day, you're no different from us, are you? You drive your brand-new car back to your family's beautiful house. You can smoke weed and hang out here as much as you want. You're no better than us."

Pope cleared his throat. “Okay. New rule. No killing each other on the porch.”

Sarah leaned closer to Y/N, voice low. “You don’t have to prove anything.”

“I know,” Y/N murmured. Then, louder, to all of them: “Look, we are not here to be a Pogue. We are not here to be a Cameron either. We are here because whatever this is—” she gestured vaguely toward the house, the map, the mess “—We both already tangled in it.”

Kiara watched her carefully. “And when it gets ugly?”

Y/N didn’t hesitate. “It already has.”

JJ let out a slow breath through his nose, shaking his head. “Jesus. Cameron girl’s got guts.”

Kiara sighed, running a hand through her hair. “I just don’t want this turning into… something else.”

Y/N nodded. “Neither do I.”

JJ stood up abruptly, pacing a few steps before turning back toward her. “You’ve been avoiding lookin’ at me since you walked in.”

She met his gaze this time, steady. “Because the last time I did, you made it very clear what you think of people like me.”

His jaw tightened. “I say a lotta things.”

“That doesn’t make them harmless.”

Silence fell. Even the cicadas seemed to quiet. JJ exhaled slowly. “Fair.”

His words hung there, awkward and exposed. It wasn’t an apology, but it wasn’t nothing.

John B’s comment cut through the tension like a blade. “I don’t know where this conversation between the two of you came from, but sort it out between yourselves.”

JJ scoffed first, breaking the tension. “Yeah, ‘cause we’re totally famous for our healthy communication.”

Pope shot him a look. “He’s not wrong though. We’ve got bigger stuff to worry about.”

JJ rolled his shoulders once, then dropped back onto the arm of the sofa instead of sitting properly—like he didn’t want to choose a side of the space. His knee bounced. “Fine. Sorting it out. But I'm telling you, Sugar is just getting angry on her own. There's nothing wrong with me.”

Y/N knew he'd said those things to annoy her. There really wasn't anything to it besides her silly feelings, but he still couldn't resist making fun of it.

Sarah bristled immediately. “Look, We didn’t exactly invite ourselves.”

“No, John B did,” Kiara shot back. “Which is kind of the problem.”

John B straightened. “Hey, okay everybody shut up. Look Kie, you are my bestfriend right? And Sarah you…”

“Say it.”

“You are my girlfriend.” Y/N chuckled in surprise. When had they even reached the dating stage? She wanted to say something sarcastic that would spoil the atmosphere, but the expression on John B's face was quite sincere. And then, when she looked at his sister, her eyes were sparkling with happiness. So she kept her mouth shut and leaned back. After all, John B was a way better than Topper.

“Is she your girlfriend now? What was all that talk about you were just using her for information? Get a map, cut her loose.”

“What the fuck John B?” Y/N said angrly.

“You said you were using me?”

“No-“

“Yeah you did.”

“Look, love just walked in, okay?”

"That was the most ridiculous explanation I've ever heard."

“That’s corny.” Pope said and JJ chuckled.

“Cut the bullshit John B, if they in I’m out okay?” And she added. “I like you Y/N, you know that. You didn’t screwed me, but this is different okay?

Silence followed Kiara’s words, heavier than the humidity pressing down on the porch. Y/N felt it settle in her chest first. Not anger—something duller. Disappointment, maybe. She nodded slowly, absorbing it instead of deflecting it.

“I get it,” she said quietly. “You don’t have to explain yourself.”

Kiara looked at her then, really looked at her, and for a moment her resolve wavered. “It’s not about you,” she insisted, though it sounded like she was trying to convince herself as much as anyone else. “It’s about what this turns into. Every time someone new gets pulled in, things go sideways.”

JJ scoffed under his breath. “Newsflash, Kie. Things were already sideways.”

“Not like this,” Kiara snapped back. “Not with Camerons involved.”

John B stepped forward again, hands out. “Okay, okay. Nobody’s leaving. That’s not happening.”

“You don’t get to decide that,” Kiara said.

“No,” he agreed. “But I do get to say this—we’re already in too deep. All of us. There’s no clean version of this anymore.”

Y/N swallowed. She hadn’t planned on speaking again, but something in Kiara’s face—fear more than anger—pulled the words out of her. They had said whatever came to mind to each other, but she couldn't stay angry for long. A small part of her understood Kiara. This wasn’t about her. Not really. It was about fear. About losing the only thing that had ever felt stable to them.

“I’m not here to replace anyone,” she said. “And I’m definitely not here to mess this up. If walking away makes this safer for you, I can—”

“No,” Sarah said immediately, gripping her hand. “You’re not doing that. You and I gave the map, not just me.”

JJ leaned back, stretching his legs out. “Great. Group therapy session over?”

Pope snorted. “Barely.”

John B rubbed his face, relief and stress colliding. “So… we good enough to move on?”

Kiara stopped pacing. The cicadas were loud again, like they’d been waiting for permission to breathe. She turned to face John B, eyes sharp, jaw set. “John B,” she said, voice tight but controlled, “Me or them. Choose one.”

The words landed heavy. Not dramatic—final. Y/N felt her stomach drop. She didn’t look at Sarah. She didn’t look at JJ. She watched John B, because this was his moment and she knew it. Knew how much weight he carried in silence.

John B didn’t hesitate. “Both,” he said simply. “I want all three of you, okay?”

For half a second, Kiara looked like she might argue. Like she might throw something, say something she couldn’t take back. Her eyes flicked to Sarah, then to Y/N—not accusing, just wounded.

“Right,” she said. “Of course you do.”

She grabbed her bag from the chair, slung it over her shoulder. “Have fun playing house.”

“Kie—” Pope started.

But she was already walking off the porch. The screen door slammed hard enough to rattle the windows. Silence followed. Thick. Awkward. Permanent-feeling. Y/N stared at the empty space Kiara had occupied, her chest tight. She hated this part—the part where people got hurt in ways that didn’t bleed.

She let out a slow breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her chest felt tight—not panicked, just heavy. She stood up, smoothing her sleeves out of habit. “I think… we should go too,” she said quietly.

Sarah nodded immediately. “Yeah. Probably.”

John B turned toward them, guilt flashing across his face. “You don’t have to—”

“We do,” Sarah replied gently. “We need space. And so do you apparently.”

Y/N met his eyes. “We’ll talk later, dinner at six.” He nodded, clearly wanting to say more, but not knowing how.

They walked down the steps together. Sarah’s shoulder brushed Y/N’s, grounding her as they crossed the yard in silence. Neither of them spoke until they were far enough away that the porch was just a shape behind them.

“You know Sarah, it’s kinda have a point.”

“What do you mean?”

“You two acting like a Alexander Hamilton and Aaron Burr. You unfairly excluded her, and you were mostly to blame for it. Not Kiara. You're pushing people away.” When Sarah opened her mouth angrily, she silenced her.

"Stop before saying something you'll regret. You know I'm right."

"I didn't know you were in love with Kiara."

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Look, Sarah, this is our only chance. It's the last opportunity for both of us to feel alive before the husbands my dad set us up with. We can't miss this, understand?"

She wanted her sister to understand her. She wanted a sign of life in their lives. "When I turn thirty, and I'm just a drunkard with three kids, all I want is something to remember."

“I know.”

"Then fix things with Kiara, I don't care how you do it. I'm not saying you should become best friends again or anything. Just get that mountain out of between you."

Sarah sighed in frustration, but she knew her sister was right. This was their only shot, and the ball was in her court. If she took her shot correctly, they would win. “Okay, I’ll try.”

“Thank you Sarah, you know I love you so much.” She said while hugging her sister. “You are my favourite person.”

Sarah squeezed Y/N once more, then pulled back with a small, determined nod. “I’ll fix it,” she said again, more to herself than anyone else. “I promise.”

Y/N smiled, tired but sincere. “I know you will.”

Sarah lingered for half a second after the hug, like she wanted to say more, then seemed to think better of it. She glanced past Y/N’s shoulder, caught sight of someone approaching, and her expression shifted—knowing, deliberate.

Y/N frowned. “Sarah—” But her sister was already walking away, giving her space without asking permission for it. Y/N watched her go, irritation and gratitude tangling in her chest.

Then a shadow fell across the dirt path. “Hey.” JJ’s voice came from behind her—rougher than usual, like he’d run to catch up and didn’t want to admit it. Y/N turned.

He held her wallet out between two fingers. The leather was scuffed at the edges, familiar in a way that made her stomach sink.

“You dropped this back there.”

Her heart skipped, sharp and stupid. “Oh.” She took it, their fingers brushing. The contact was brief, accidental, but it lingered anyway, and of course JJ let go first. “Thanks. I didn’t even notice.”

They stood there for a moment, neither quite sure how to start. The air was thick with late-afternoon heat and things left unsaid. He shifted his weight, hands slipping into his pockets. “So,” JJ said finally, nodding back toward the Chateau. “That was… a mess.”

“Yeah,” Y/N agreed. “That’s kind of the theme lately.”

She expected sarcasm from him. A joke. Something sharp to deflect. Instead, he frowned, eyes fixed on the ground like he was choosing his words carefully—something she hadn’t pegged him as capable of.

“I don’t hate you,” he said finally. “In case that wasn’t clear.”

Her chest tightened unexpectedly. “I didn’t think you did.”

“Yeah,” he replied. “Well. I didn’t make it obvious. I run my mouth when I don’t know what to do with a situation.”

She let out a soft breath. “And, that’s one way of handling things.”

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s not a good one.” ”

She studied his face—sunburned nose, restless jaw, eyes that looked tired in a way sleep wouldn’t fix. For the first time, she wondered how often people mistook his sharpness for confidence, his recklessness for ease.

“You don’t have to like me,” she said quietly. “I know what I look like to you.”

JJ glanced up at that. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“A Cameron,” she said. “A shortcut. An assumption.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then stopped. Closed it again. “I don’t think you’re… fake,” he said, like the word tasted wrong. “I just don’t trust things that come with safety nets.”

The honesty in it caught her off guard. “You think I have one?”

He shrugged. “Don’t you?”

The truth pressed up against her ribs, aching to be said. She thought of her house, her father. The expectations waiting for her like a locked door she’d never been given the key to. “Not the kind you think,” she said.

That made him look at her again—really look this time. Like he was recalculating. Like maybe the version of her he’d built in his head didn’t quite line up with the one standing next to him.

They walked a few steps in silence, side by side now. JJ kicked at a rock, sending it skittering off the road. “Midsummer,” he said suddenly. “I was outta line.”

Y/N stopped walking.

He stopped too, turning toward her, shoulders tense like he expected her to throw that moment back in his face. She could’ve. God knows she’d replayed it enough times in her head. The way his words had stung more than they should have. The way she’d pretended they hadn’t mattered.

“Yeah,” she said simply. “You were.”

He nodded once, accepting it. “Doesn’t mean much now, I guess.”

“It does. Just… later than you think.” she added quietly. “You didn’t just embarrass me.”

His jaw tightened. He nodded once. “I know.”

“You made me feel stupid for thinking I could exist somewhere I wasn’t invited.”

He swallowed. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said. And she meant it. “But you did.”

The honesty didn’t explode between them the way arguments usually did. It just settled. JJ didn’t deflect. Didn’t joke. He took it, like pain he’d decided not to dodge for once.

“I grew up thinking people like you didn’t notice people like me,” He let out a quiet, humorless laugh. “Guess we’re both bad at seeing past the surface.”

That seemed to ease something in him. Not fully, but enough. Suddenly, Y/N mumbled as if she had remembered something important. Her hand slipped into her pocket without her thinking about it. She felt the familiar plastic bottle and hesitated, then pulled it out.

JJ’s eyes dropped to it immediately. “What’s that?”

She held it out. “Painkillers. Strong ones.”

He frowned. “Why are you giving me those?”

“Isn't it obvious? I'm a drug dealer Maybank."

"I don't think drug dealers dress and doll themselves up like that. Believe me, I know enough people to know."

“You’ve been favoring your side since the Chateau,” she said. “You were limping at Midsummer too, remember?”

For a moment, he didn’t take it. Just stared at the bottle like it didn’t belong in his hands—or his life. Then he reached out and wrapped his fingers around it. But he is still staring at the bottle like it might bite him. “And what,” he asked carefully, “do I owe you for this?”

She frowned, genuinely confused. “Nothing.”

JJ let out a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. That’s not how it works.”

“I took them for you,” she replied lightly. “They help. Take one if it gets bad, but don’t be stupid with them.”

I took them for you.

The sentence landed wrong in his chest—too deliberate, too personal. He looked up at her sharply, like he was checking whether she’d misspoken. She hadn’t. Her face was calm, almost casual, but her eyes gave her away. She’d thought about this, more than once.

“You… took them for me?” he asked quietly, like repeating it might make it less real.

She nodded. No joke this time. No deflection.

“Yeah. I told you, I noticed you were limping at Midsummer.” She hesitated, then added, almost apologetically, “I figured you wouldn’t go to a doctor. Or anyone.”

That part hit harder than she intended. JJ’s jaw tightened. He looked away toward the trees, the water beyond them glinting in the late light. People passed him all the time without seeing anything worth worrying about. Pain was just… background noise to most of them.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said.

She nodded, eyes steady but warm. “You were hurting. I could tell.”

That did it. He looked at her again, really looked this time, like he was trying to memorize her face in case the world took it away too quickly. The wind lifted a strand of her hair, and she tucked it behind her ear absentmindedly, unaware of how gentle she looked in that moment. A gentle smile spread across her beautifully shaped lips. At that moment, JJ could have helped her completely wipe away her smudged lipstick.

JJ swallowed. He looked down at the bottle, then at his own hand holding it, like he didn’t recognize either of them. No one ever prepared for him. No one ever thought past the immediate chaos. He was an afterthought at best, collateral at worst.

“I wanted to.” That was even worse. Wanting meant intention. It meant she’d gone out of her way, stood in a pharmacy aisle, made a choice with him in mind. JJ felt something tight twist in his chest, something dangerously close to grief.

“I’m not exactly… worth the trouble,” he muttered.

She frowned instantly. “Don’t say that.”

The air felt thick between them. JJ nodded once, more to himself than to her. “Are you sure these are okay?” he asked. “I mean—strong stuff like this.”

She nodded. “They’ll help. Just don’t take more than you should. And don’t mix them with anything stupid.” A pause. “I mean it, JJ.”

He huffed a soft laugh. “You sound like my conscience.”

“God help you, then.” That earned a real smile—quick, bright, gone almost as soon as it appeared, like he hadn’t meant to let it show.

“I’ll take one if it gets bad,” he promised. “I won’t be stupid.”

She smiled, relieved in a quiet way. “Good.”

He slipped the bottle into his pocket, more carefully than he’d ever handled anything that wasn’t stolen or broken. “Thank you,” he said, and this time there was no sarcasm in it at all. “For… caring, you know.” This earned a genuine smile from Y/N.

They walked a few more steps in silence before the road split, Sarah waiting near the car ahead. JJ slowed, already half-turned like he was preparing to leave things there—unfinished, but quieter than before.

“JJ,” Y/N said.

He stopped for looked back at her. She hesitated for someone who usually chose her words carefully, this one felt heavier than it should have. Maybe because it wasn’t about strategy or survival or playing a role—it was about him.

Y/N clasped her hands together. She couldn't help but feel like an 8-year-old again, asking her father for permission to go out into the garden.

“Would it bother you,” she asked, voice even but softer underneath, “if Sarah and I stayed in this? The gold. All of it.”

His expression shifted, something subtle tightening around his eyes. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something more complicated.

“Why do you care if it bothers me?” he asked.

She met his gaze. Didn’t dodge it this time. “Because you’re part of this. And because I don’t want to be another thing people take from you without asking.”

That caught him off guard. He looked away briefly, jaw working, then back at her. “I don’t own it,” he said. “The hunt. The gold. None of it.”

“I know,” she replied. “But feelings don’t exactly follow rules like that.”

JJ leaned back against the fence, arms crossed. For a moment, he looked younger. Less like the guy who always had to be ready for the worst. “Does it bother me?” he repeated. “Yeah. A little.”

Her chest tightened, but she didn’t interrupt.

“Not because you don’t deserve to be in it,” he continued. “But because people with power have a way of walking out fine when everything blows up. And people like us…”

He shrugged. “We don’t.”

Y/N absorbed that, nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

“But,” he added, pushing off the fence, “You already crossed the line back at the map. And again today. You’re not pretending this is a game.”

She exhaled, relieved in a way she hadn’t expected to feel. “So?” she asked.

“So,” he said, meeting her eyes again, “It doesn’t bother me if you’re in. It’d bother me if you acted like you weren’t.”

Her lips curved into a small, genuine smile. “I can promise you that much.”

He nodded once, satisfied. “Good.”

Relief loosened something in her chest she hadn’t realized she was holding tight “Thank you,” she said. Not lightly. Not casually.

He shrugged, trying—and failing—to make it seem like it didn’t matter. “Just don’t prove me wrong, Cameron.”

Y/N smiled, small but certain. “Same to you, Maybank.”

They stood there another second, the air thick with things neither of them named. Then JJ stepped back, turning toward the road. “See you around,” he said.

“Don’t worry, you will. ” She smiled faintly. “So we’re okay?”

JJ cracked a crooked grin. “Yeah, Sugar. We’re okay.”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname, but didn’t correct him this time. “Take care of yourself,” she said.

He tapped his pocket where the bottle was. “You already did.”

For a second, it felt like there was more to say—something important, something fragile—but JJ just gave her a two-finger salute and turned away. As he walked off, Y/N watched him go, realizing with a quiet, unsettling certainty that this wasn’t just about gold anymore, and JJ knew it too. Whatever this was between them, it wasn’t easy.

But, it was honest.

I haven't been able to write for a while because of my finals, but I'm available now.

ɞ Y/N Cameron is trying to escape from her little bubble. Sad inside in this life, unsatisfied, prayin’ and waitin’. Was she meant to feel happy that her life? Was just about to change? Once she cross the line, will she be satisfied?

| JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader | chapter 4

Warnings: breathing problems, smut, death, mental health problems, english is not my first language.

Chapter 4 | chapter 5

"Oh my god, I look amazing!" said Y/N, almost jumping up and down. She was wearing a beautiful yellow satin dress. Her hair cascades down her back in curls reminiscent of water waves. For Midsummer's, she wore a crown of flowers, just like her sisters. She was even wearing her mother's old pearl earrings.

“Yes, you look great,” Sarah murmured, scrolling through her phone. She hadn't made a single comment about her dress.

Y/N turned. “That’s it? No dramatic gasp? No jealousy?”

Sarah didn’t look up.

“Why haven’t you gotten dressed yet?”

“I don’t want to go —hey, give me my phone back.”

Y/N burst out laughing at the picture on the phone screen: a photo of John B eating pizza. “Ugh, have you been sighing over John B’s picture for half an hour?”

Sarah snatched the phone from her sister's hand. "You don't understand, it was the best day of my life."

"Yes, I understand," she said, laying her sister's white dress on the bed. "But your date tonight is with Topper, not with Dear John."

"Sometimes I envy you."

Y/N stared at her in disbelief. "Tonight, I have to dance with all of my dad's business partners' sons. All you have to do is walk inside with Topper."

“Do you remember when my dad caught you drinking last year?” Sarah giggled.

“You’re starting to annoy me, get up and get dressed, you lazy bum.”

Sarah groaned but finally slid off the bed, tugging the dress from bed. “Fine,” she muttered. “But if I disappear halfway through the night, don’t act surprised.”

Y/N smiled knowingly. “I’d be more surprised if you didn’t. Don’t worry I can pick you up from John D’s house.”

“You are disgusting.”

“I love you too.”

Hours later, she was walking on the grass at the Island Club in her high heels. The edges of her yellow dress had already turned green. She was about to explode with boredom. The drinks she and Sarah had secretly sipped weren't enough. At least the music was good, she thought. His father, who was organizing the event, had asked her to create a music playlist. It’s become some kind of tradition. ABBA's Our Last Summer was playing.

“Come and dance with me, Wheezie,” she said, pulling her onto the dance floor despite her sister’s protests. Y/N had, of course, seen some Kook boy approaching, but she would never dance with him.

“You’re so sneaky, Sugar. Anyone would think you wanted to dance with your sister.”

Y/N put on a surprised expression, so fake that Wheezie couldn’t suppress a smile. “Of course I want to dance with you.”

“Please, you just hid behind me to get some drinks,” she said, and this time it was Y/N’s turn to shut her up. She couldn’t bear three weeks of punishment like last year. As they danced and laughed to a few songs, someone caught Y/N’s eye.

“I’ll be right back,” she said, leaving her sister behind and approaching the sullen brunette leaning against the railing.

“Hey Kiara, what’s up?” she said, trying to sound cute.

“Hey,” Kiara mumbled. Y/N knew Kiara hated all of this. All the pomp and circumstance, the fake smiles, the smell of expensive perfume in the air… She had a point; while the other side of the island didn’t even have electricity, they were partying with wine from the 1940s.

“Are you okay?”

“I hate this shit. My parents drag me here every year. The island is practically falling apart, but you Kooks are partying.”

“I’m sorry, but I didn't set up the system.”

“No, I know, I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just that things aren’t going well lately,” she said, sitting down on the wooden step. “JJ was arrested for sinking Topper’s boat. We don’t know where he is, and John B is—never mind.”

“Oh my God, JJ went to jail?” The people at the marina kept saying JJ would eventually end up in jail, but this was still so… ridiculous. Rafe had said Pope was the one who sank the boat.

Y/N lowered her voice. “Wasn’t it Pope who sank the boat?” she whispered.

“Man, you know everything. Yes, but JJ took the blame.”

“I’m sorry, Topper is such a dick.”

“I’m sure JJ is fine. He’s practically a cockroach.”

Y/N giggled at her friend’s comparison and stood up to change the subject. “Hey, what do you think of my dress?” she said, turning around.

“Umm, a yellow satin dress?”

“And?”

“And it suits you, I guess? I didn’t understand what you wanted me to say.”

She sighed and sat back down. “Nothing, it’s pretty much like the dress in How to Lose a Guy in 10 Days. It doesn’t matter anymore, though.”

“I hate romantic comedies,” Kiara said apologetically. Y/N couldn’t help but chuckle. Kiara grumbled as Sarah approached them while they were talking about the brochures she’d prepared the other day.

“Your other halef is coming,” she murmured. Y/N gave the brunette a warning look and started walking towards her sister. Strangely, her face was beaming. How many drinks did she have?

“Something wonderful happened!” she exclaimed, whining with joy.

Y/N touched her forehead. “What happened? Are you alright?”

Sarah secretly slipped the piece of paper into her sister’s hand. “I’m fine, I’m totally fine. John B sent me a note. He wants to meet me.”

Y/N frowned as she read the note. “Who is Vlad? I thought you said John B sent the note—”

“John B sent it. Vlad is John B.” she said impatiently.

Y/N raised her eyebrows. “Is this some kind of role-playing between you two or—”

Sarah glared at her angrily. “Okay, you’re getting a little too sexually suggestive today. But that’s not the point. I need to meet John B now, you have to handle Topper for me.”

Y/N let out a sound somewhere between disgust and laughter. “Of course not. I’m not going to flirt with Topper so you can hook up with Vlad.”

“Please, Y/N. I’m sure John B found something about the gold. And I know you’re just as curious about it as I am. Please, I beg you, please, please, please—”

“Oh, shut up, I’ll do it,” she grumbled. “But first thing tomorrow you’re breaking up with Topper.”

Sarah hugged her sister happily. “I love you, Sugar.” Without giving her sister a chance to speak, she quickly walked away. Wonderful. More problems.

The second Sarah disappeared into the crowd, Y/N felt the full weight of what she’d agreed to settle on her shoulders. Topper was already scanning the lawn like a guard dog who’d lost sight of his favorite chew toy.

Great.

She smoothed the wrinkled edge of her yellow dress, ignored the green grass stains creeping higher up the hem, and walked straight toward him before he could reach Sarah’s empty spot and start asking questions.

“Hey, Top,” she said lightly, forcing a smile.

Topper turned, relief flashing across his face for half a second before confusion replaced it. “Where’s Sarah?”

“Bathroom,” Y/N lied smoothly. “You know—girls.”

Topper nodded, distracted, already irritated. “She’s been acting weird all night.”

Tell me about it.

Y/N leaned her elbows against the railing beside him, copying his posture just enough to look casual without being inviting. “It’s a weird night,” she said. “Everyone’s tense. Dad’s been tense. The island’s tense.”

Topper scoffed. “Yeah, well, I think Sarah is seeing someone else.”

There it was.

Y/N kept her face neutral. “Oh? Of course not.”

“We know what she did to her ex-boyfriends.”

"Those things are in the past. You don't need to worry. Trust me."

Just as Topper's attention seemed to wander again, Y/N practically clung to his arm. She gestured him toward the dance floor, “You wanna dance?”

Topper blinked. “With you? You're behaving surprisingly well tonight?”

“Relax,” she said dryly. “I’m still hate you. This is purely to keep you from spiraling. And this is my favorite song too.”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “Fine.”

They moved onto the grass—Topper stiff, Y/N already regretting every step in heels. He placed his hands too carefully, like he wasn’t sure where to touch her without crossing some unspoken line.

“You look… nice,” he said awkwardly. “Like really nice.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “ And you look like a finance brochure.”

He frowned. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Professionally handsome,” she added quickly.

They swayed in silence for a few beats. Then Topper muttered, “She’s pulling away from me.”

Y/N exhaled. “Topper… if someone pulls away, chasing them harder doesn’t fix it.”

He looked at her, jaw tight. “So what? I just let her go?”

Y/N met his gaze steadily. “You can find better options out there. It's not insurmountable, unless you've got my sister's name tattooed on your chest. Just look around."

Topper stared at her intently. "Are you trying to imply something?"

When she understood what he said, she winced and recoiled. "You can't even go out with me in your dreams, Topper. Forget that."

“I’m sorry.” Topper spoke again, quieter. “You think she’s gonna break up with me.”

Y/N frowned, but before she could respond, Ward’s voice boomed from across the lawn, calling guests toward the speeches.

Saved by the patriarchy.

Topper released her like he’d just remembered where he was. “I gotta go.”

“Yeah please go.”

The music shifted again outside—louder, heavier—voices blurring into champagne laughter and clapping as Ward’s speech carried across the lawn.

Y/N slipped inside the Island Club through the side doors, heels clicking softly against polished floors. The air-conditioning hit her immediately, cool and sharp, sending a shiver through her.

Her chest tightened.

Not panic, not fear. Just the reminder.

She dug into her clutch as she walked, fingers closing around the familiar plastic casing. The bathroom was only a few steps away. She just needed a second. One minute to breathe without pretending.

She turned the corner and slammed straight into someone.

“Oof—shit—” a voice hissed as they both staggered back. Y/N barely had time to react before strong hands caught her shoulders to keep her from falling.

“JJ?” she whispered, stunned.

He was sweating, hair wild, eyes blown wide with adrenaline. There was a cut blooming red at his eyebrow and grass stains streaking his suit jacket like he’d been dragged through half the island.

“Don’t scream,” he breathed.

“I wasn’t—” She stopped short when she heard it.

Voices echoed down the corridor. “HE WENT THIS WAY.”

It’s Rafe. Y/N’s blood ran cold.

JJ’s head snapped toward the sound. “Shit.”

Before she could think—before fear or logic or class lines caught up with her—Y/N grabbed JJ’s wrist and yanked him sideways. “Here,” she hissed.

The door clicked shut behind them, plunging the room into a dim, amber glow from the single emergency light above the shelves. It was one of the Island Club’s old card rooms—unused now, stacked with folded chairs and linen-covered tables. The air smelled faintly of dust and lemon polish.

Y/N pressed her back against the door instinctively, listening. Footsteps thundered past outside. “Split up!” Rafe barked. “He couldn’t have disappeared.”

JJ stood frozen in the center of the room, chest heaving, jaw tight like he was ready to bolt at any second.

“Stay still,” Y/N whispered.

He shot her a look. “I’m not exactly great at that.”

She shot him one back. “You want to get caught?”

He exhaled sharply and He slumped down against to the wall, forcing himself to stay put. Silence settled—thick and electric. Y/N sat down next to him as close as her dress allowed. “I thought you were in prison.”

“I was released on parole."

Y/N just nodded. The silence between them was quite strange. Aside from a few days ago and brief conversations on the beach, she hadn't spoken to JJ at all. It was weird for them to be alone in this dusty room.

Suddenly, Y/N focused on JJ's face. His naturally blonde hair had lightened even more in the sun. He looked sweet with the tan that the sun had bestowed upon his face like a kiss. But what really caught her attention were the bruises and redness on his face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, you?”

"No, your face looks hurted. Who did this to you?" JJ sighed heavily. It was clear there was a topic he didn't want to talk. But it felt like more than just a fight. It was as if the JJ had been beaten without giving them a chance to defend himself.

"It happens to me all the time, not a big deal."

What is that mean?

“Does it hurt?” JJ didn’t answer that, but Y/N saw how wrecked he looked. His suit jacket was torn at the elbow, his knuckles dirt raw.

“You’re bleeding,” she said softly.

He shrugged. “It’s nothing.”

“That’s what people say when it’s not nothing.” From her clutch, she pulled a folded napkin and pressed it gently to his eyebrow. She didn't know what had driven her to do it, but she couldn't remain indifferent, no matter who was in front of her. JJ flinched, but then he relaxed.

“You’re shaking,” he murmured.

She paused. “So are you.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah. But that’s kinda my brand.”

Her smile was faint, tired.

“Why do you have so much medicine in your clutch?” JJ said.

Y/N felt a chill run down her spine, but tried not to show it. Because my father thinks I'm slowly dying. That's why we go to a different doctor every week. And every doctor we see bombards me with new drug.

“It’s nothing.”

JJ can tell from her actions that this is an unpleasant topic. They owed each other nothing. Just as JJ couldn't bring himself to talk about how his father had beaten him almost to death, Y/N had nothing to tell him either. They are just two strangers. Y/N was Kook, who dressed up nicely every day and hung out with rich kids. JJ, on the other hand, sometimes went to bed hungry. The two were very different. They were from different worlds.

We are not friends, we are not companions. She just helped me, that's all. Simply because she wasn't as bad as the others. The way she had gentle, beautiful hands didn't change the fact that she was still a Kook, at the end of the day.

“Your brother really hates me,” he muttered.

“Rafe hates everyone who breathes wrong.”

JJ glanced up at her. “You could’ve let them take me.”

“I know.”

“Why didn’t you?” The question wasn’t accusatory. Just curious. Honest. She thought she didn't know the answer to that question. That seemed like the right thing to do at that moment, and so she did it.

“I’m tired of watching people get hurt while everyone else looks the other way,” she said quietly. “Especially when it’s… unnecessary.”

JJ studied her for a long moment. “You’re not exactly like them,” he said.

She scoffed softly. “That’s what people say right before they remember my last name.”

“Yeah, well,” he replied, voice low, “Your last name didn’t pull me into this room tho.”

Her chest tightened again—this time from illness. She should have taken her medication a long time ago. Y/N silently and shyly reached for her inhaler, taking a controlled breath. JJ probably had a guess about what those drugs were for by now. Still, she decided it wasn't so bothersome. God only knew when she'd see him again.

They sat there in the dim room, the emergency light humming faintly above them. Outside, the music filtered through the walls, distorted and distant, like it belonged to another world entirely.

“You know,” JJ said after a moment, “this is the fanciest place I’ve ever almost been beaten to death.”

She winced. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah?”

“Is your sister mackin’ with John B?”

Y/N chuckled sarcastically. “Oh, John B? I think you meant Vlad.”

“I knew it!” he said, stand up and twirling around, showing off his clothes. “By the way, I delivered the note to your dear sister. I’m simply on a secret mission right now.”

The girl giggled and nodded, impressed. “I like it,” she said, standing up. “What do you think of my dress?”

JJ stared at the girl, his gaze gleaming. The warm wind had slightly disheveled her hair, perhaps due to her dancing. One of the flowers in her crown had fallen off. Her dress beautifully hugged her lovely figure. The hem of it was stained bright green with grass. Her cheeks were flushed with adrenaline. She looked absolutely stunning, like a forbidden fruit. “Nice enough.”

“Nice enough?” Y/N repeated, arching a brow as she looked down at herself. “Wow. Truly poetic. I feel seen.”

“Well.” He said. “It's similar to the dress the blonde girl wears in that movie too.”

"Really?" Y/N asked in astonishment. JJ Maybank was telling her what she should have heard from her sister.

"It was on one of the CDs I stole, not a bad movie."

“That might be the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all night,” she admitted.

"Wow, if the nicest thing you've ever heard came from me, you're really having a shitty night."

“Guess tonight’s full of surprises.”

Minutes later, silence seemed to fill the corridor. JJ and Y/N rose from the dusty floor where they had been sitting. “I should go. Before they decide to do another sweep.

"I'll help you sneak out," Y/N said, picking up her clutch. With JJ behind her, she carefully opened the door and checked outside. Seeing no sign of her brother or his friends, they quietly slipped out.

“There’s a service exit past the kitchen. Staff only.”

“Of course you know that.”

She smiled. “I know a lot of things.”

Y/N's heart pounded with excitement as they walked past the man’s restroom. When was the last time something this exciting had happened? Except, of course, for when a gun was held to her head.

“Thought I smelled garbage.”

They both turned.

Rafe stood at the far end of the hallway, blocking the exit, Kelce beside him and two other Kooks fanning out behind them. All polished shoes and sharp grins, like they’d cornered prey exactly where they wanted it. Rafe’s eyes locked onto JJ instantly—bright, wired, angry.

Then his gaze slid to Y/N, that was when his expression changed.

“What the hell is this?” Rafe demanded. “You hiding him now?”

Y/N stepped forward without thinking, instinctive and protective. “Rafe, stop.”

JJ shot her a look. A warning. Don’t.

One of the kids clapped his hands disgustingly. "Man, one of your sisters is hooking up with John B and the other with JJ? Pogue lovers huh?"

Rafe laughed, sharp and humorless. “Are you serious right now?” He gestured toward JJ. “You know what he did.”

“I know what you think he did,” she shot back. “And I know you chasing him through the Island Club like animals isn’t fixing anything.”

Kelce scoffed. “He sank Topper’s boat.”

“No, he didn’t,” Y/N said firmly. “And you know that.”

Rafe’s eyes flicked to her—dangerously calm now. “You’re picking the wrong side, Sugar.”

JJ shifted beside her, stepping slightly in front of her this time. “Hey,” he said, voice light but edged. “You wanna hit someone, hit me. Leave her out of it.”

Rafe’s smile twisted. “Oh, I plan to.” As Rafe pushed JJ, Kelce grabbed him by the throat with his arm.

“Kelce—!” Y/N shouted.

JJ clawed at Kelce’s forearm, boots scraping against the polished floor as he tried to get leverage. “Get—off—” he choked out, breath cutting short.

Rafe watched with a sharp, almost detached focus, eyes flicking once to Y/N and then back to JJ like she wasn’t even supposed to be part of the equation.

“Told you,” Rafe said calmly. “Wrong place. Wrong night.”

“Rafe, stop!” Y/N rushed forward without thinking, grabbing at Kelce’s sleeve. “You’re going to hurt him!”

Kelce tightened his grip instinctively. “Back off, Cameron.”

JJ’s face was already flushing, jaw clenched hard as he forced out a breath. “She said—get—off.”

"You disappointed me tonight, Sugar. I can't understand what father saw in you," Rafe said, plucking one of the flowers from her crown and turning it between his fingers.

“Let him go Kelce or-“

“Or what Sugar? Are you going to call your daddy?”

“He can't breathe, you're suffocating him!”

JJ could barely speak as he struggled to escape from Kelce's grasp. “Very Rafe of you. Five on One.”

“If you could please stop talking it’s very disrespectful. I’m tryna hit the ball, okay?” And he add. “You’re face looks really bad by the way. Starting to look like your dad a lot more.”

“You've gone crazy!” said Y/N, trying to pick up her clutch from the floor to get her phone. Rafe kicked her clutch to the other corner of the room.

"I don't think you can understand what's happening here right now, Sugar." he said, pulling his sister away from JJ. "I'm your big brother, and I'm protecting you from a Pogue right now."

Y/N hit her brother’s chest. “You’re just a jerk and you're not protecting me at all.” Rafe was about to say something about his sister's disrespect when the flashing lights interrupted him.

“Gentlemens.” Kelce let go of JJ the moment he heard the security guard's voice. Y/N quickly went to JJ and put her hand on his shoulder. But before she could ask if he was okay, JJ pushed her hand away.

“Are there any problem?” Just as JJ started rambling on, Y/N interrupted him.

"He's with me, sir . We were just about to go out, but there was a little misunderstanding." As she said,

"No, it's not sir, my sister has been acting really weird lately, sorry for that." Rafe said, pulling Y/N closer by the arm. Y/N didn't get a chance to object to what he said. Security grabbed JJ and started dragging him.

“Hey, safe travels back to The Cut.”

“This ain’t over!”

As security escorted him out, JJ started talking nonsense. He was taunting the guests and saying he could walk on his own. After drinking a stranger's whiskey, he threw himself into the middle of the dance floor.

“It’s okay everybody, do not panic.”

“Rose, you look like a Lady Liberty.”

And while in the crowd, he turned to Y/N. “Dear Sugar, you look amazing in that thousands-of-dollar dress,”. Y/N Sighing and taking a step closer to him, but the moment her eyes met her father's, she changed her mind.

While Kiara was shouting something in defense of JJ, Y/N approached her father and Sarah. She snuggled closer to them as he placed his hand protectively and suffocatingly on her shoulder.

JJ turned to the girl again mockingly. “Oh and thank you for all your services. I’d invite you to the Pogue dump, but you seem quite comfortable with next your lovely daddy.”

Y/N suddenly lost her temper and shook her head in disbelief at the words he'd just said to her. Ten minutes ago, he'd been joking with her, saying she was a quite good person. What had changed now?

Still, it was strangely enjoyable to watch the small group running towards the beach with John B, who suddenly appeared. They were happy, and most importantly, they seemed to complement each other. This was something she could never have.

Sarah looked at her with longing eyes, as if waiting for her lover. It was as if all it took for her to go along with them, was a single step from Y/N enough for her. But her sister turned out not to be as brave as she thought. She stayed under their father's protective wings, like a little nightingale. She had never done it any other way before and she was quite hesitant to leave the pretty cage. Even if she had escaped, what could she have done?

She couldn't have survived on her own. For this reason, she allowed her longing for freedom to go away.

Maniac brother and sick sister, I love writing about Rafe and Y/N.

ɞ Y/N Cameron is trying to escape from her little bubble. Sad inside in this life, unsatisfied, prayin’ and waitin’. Was she meant to feel happy that her life? Was just about to change? Once she cross the line, will she be satisfied?

| JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader | chapter 3

Warnings: breathing problems, smut, death, mental health problems, english is not my first language.

Chapter 3 | chapter 4

The front door of Tanneyhill closed softer than it should have. Y/N slipped inside, breath uneven, heart still hammering against her ribs like it hadn’t gotten the message that she was safe now. The house was quiet in that unnatural midday way—too clean, too still. The kind of silence that made everything echo.

Someone had pointed a gun at her. A fucking gun.

She closed the front door carefully, like the house might shatter if she didn’t. Her hands were still shaking—not visibly, not enough for anyone to comment on—but she could feel it in her fingers, the leftover adrenaline buzzing under her skin.

She hadn’t told anyone what happened.

She kicked off her shoes and moved slowly down the hallway, every breath measured. The encounter replayed in her head—the gun, the voice, the name she didn’t know. She dropped her bag by the staircase, fingers trembling as she loosened her grip.

Tomorrow.

She took one careful step forward. Then she heard it. A soft metallic click. Y/N frozed.

It came again—sharper this time. Familiar. Too familiar. The sound of the safe. Her stomach dropped. She followed the noise down the hallway toward her father’s office, each step heavier than the last. The door was slightly ajar. Light spilled out into the corridor.

She pushed it open.

Rafe stood with his back to her, shoulders tense, one hand inside the open wall safe near Ward’s desk. Stacks of cash sat on the desk, messy and rushed, like he hadn’t even tried to be discreet.

“Rafe?” He startled violently, whipping around.

“Jesus—” he snapped, then stopped short when he saw her face. “What the hell are you doing home?”

Y/N stared at the money. “What are you doing?”

Rafe laughed once, sharp and humorless. “Relax. It’s not what it looks like.”

“You’re stealing from Dad.”

“I’m borrowing,” he corrected quickly. “Big difference.”

Her chest constricted again—not the bad kind, but close enough to make her dizzy. She stepped into the room anyway, fingers curling into the flange of her dress.

“I just ran into a man today,” she said quietly.

Rafe paused.

Slowly, his expression shifted. Not confusion. Recognition.

“He had a gun,” Y/N continued, voice shaking despite herself. “He knew my name. He knew you were my brother.”

Rafe’s jaw clenched. “You talked to Barry?”

“I didn’t know his name,” she whispered. “But he knew mine.”

Silence fell hard between them.

Rafe swore under his breath, raking a hand through his hair. “Shit.”

“He pointed a gun at me, Rafe.”

That landed. Rafe’s eyes flicked to her face—really looked at her this time. Her pale skin. The way she was holding herself like she might fall apart if she stopped concentrating on standing.

“…Did he hurt you?” he asked, quieter.

“No,” she said.

Rafe exhaled sharply, relief flickering before being swallowed by anger. “Then you’re fine.”

“I’m not fine. He said if you don’t pay him, he’ll come back.”

Rafe exhaled harshly. “That’s why I’m here.”

“So this is about it,” she said, gesturing to the cash. “Not me.”

“You didn’t have to do anything,” he snapped the second he saw her. “You could’ve stayed out of it.”

She stared at him, stunned. “He pointed a gun at me.”

Rafe scoffed. “He was bluffing.”

“No, he wasn’t,” she said quietly. “I saw his finger on the trigger.”

Rafe ran a hand through his hair. “You don’t know how this works.”

“I know enough to know I was scared,” Y/N shot back, voice rising before she could control it. “I couldn’t breathe, Rafe. I thought—” She stopped herself, swallowing hard “I thought I was going to die.”

Rafe’s expression flickered. Something dark crossed his eyes—guilt, maybe—but it vanished just as fast. “Nothing happened,” he said. “You’re fine.”

“That’s not your call to make!”

Rafe stepped closer. “You don’t get it. If Dad finds out everything, he’ll lose it. He’ll make it worse.”

“You already made it worse,” she said, her hands trembling now. “You dragged me into it without even trying to protect me.”

Rafe’s jaw tightened. “Look, I didn’t ask Barry to go after you.”

“But you knew he might,” she whispered. “He is a physco.”

Silence.

That was answer enough. Her chest tightened again—not sharp enough to panic, but heavy, suffocating. She pressed her palm against the wall, grounding herself.

“You’re gonna tell him, aren’t you?” Rafe said suddenly.

She looked up at him. “I don’t want to.”

That surprised them both.

“You think I want to be the reason Dad looks at you like you’re already a failure?” she continued, voice cracking. “I don’t want to do that to you.”

Rafe laughed once, bitter. “Then don’t.”

“You don’t make it easy,” she said.

He opened his mouth to reply but Ward’s voice cut through the hallway.

“What’s going on?”

They both froze.

Ward stood at the in front of the door, jacket still on, keys in his hand. His eyes moved between them quickly, reading the tension, the raised voices, the way Y/N was holding herself like she might shatter if touched.

“What are you two doing here?” Ward asked calmly.

Too calmly.

Rafe straightened immediately. “Nothing.”

Ward’s gaze flicked to the cash. “Doesn’t look like nothing.”

Y/N swallowed hard. Her lungs burned—not enough to reach for her inhaler, but enough to remind her that she was still carrying the fear with her.

"In my office, cabinets have been ransacked, safe is open, and you two arguing in front of it. It doesn't seem like nothing to me."

“Why are you home?” Ward asked Y/N.

She hesitated. Rafe shot her a warning look. Her lungs burned—not enough to stop her, but enough to remind her she was tired of swallowing things down.

Ward took a step closer. “Sweetheart?”

Her throat tightened. This was it. This was the moment. She could tell him everything. The gun, the threat, the money. She opened her mouth but closed it again.

“I just… needed air,” she said finally. “Rafe and I were arguing.”

Ward’s gaze sharpened slightly. “About what?”

Y/N glanced at Rafe. For the first time, he looked scared—not angry, not wired. Just scared. She swallowed. “Nothing important.”

Ward studied her, clearly unconvinced. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly.

Rafe scoffed. “She’s being dramatic.”

Ward turned on him instantly. “Watch your mouth.”

Rafe lifted his hands. “I didn’t do anything.”

Ward looked back at Y/N. “Did he?”

“No.”

Ward’s jaw tightened—not in anger, but concern. He reached out, resting a steady hand on her shoulder. “Tell me what happened honey.”

Rafe’s eyes burned into her. A silent don’t. Y/N looked up at her father—the man who built walls around her, who promised safety even when the world proved otherwise.

“Someone threatened me today,” she said.

Ward went still. “…Who did?” he asked.

Rafe inhaled sharply. “Dad—”

“A man I didn’t know,” Y/N continued, voice trembling now. “He had a gun.”

Ward’s expression changed immediately. “…What?”

Y/N’s hands curled into fists at her sides. If she told him, everything would explode. If she didn’t, Barry would come back. He had come for her today. But what if he was coming for Sarah too? Or her baby sister Wheezie?

“I don’t want you to be mad at him,” she said quietly.

Ward’s expression softened instantly. “I’m not mad at you.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Ward frowned. “Y/N.”

She closed her eyes. Rafe shook his head once. Don’t. Y/N didn't want to be the one to mess things up. But Rafe couldn't get out of this alone, especially now that things had escalated to the point of stealing money. Their fathers needed to know. Ward Cameron was a name revered throughout the Outer Banks. He could have saved Rafe from this situation.

And at the end of the day, he was their father and he cared about what was best for his children. Right?

“He mentioned Rafe.”

“You want to explain this?” he asked, voice dangerously even.

Rafe clenched his fists. “I had it under control.”

“You pointed a loaded gun at my daughter,” Ward said, his tone dropping into something cold and lethal, “is not under control.”

“It wasn’t me—”

“I don’t care,” Ward cut in. “You don’t bring this kind of danger into my house. Into my daughters life.”

“Go upstairs,” he said gently. “I’ll handle this.”

Rafe opened his mouth. “Dad—”

“Now,” Ward said, not raising his voice.

Y/N hesitated. “Please… don’t make it worse.”

Ward looked down at her, thumb brushing her shoulder reassuringly. “I won’t,” he promised.

Y/N nodded, trusting him—because she always did. How could she not, he was her father after all. As she left the room, the last thing she heard was Ward’s voice, low and furious:

“You are done playing games, Rafe.”

And Rafe’s reply, barely contained but she couldn’t hear. The door closed behind her. And Y/N already knowing, this was only the beginning.

Hours later, Y/N finally relaxed as she lay in bed, having just showered. She was curling her hair with curlers while watching a random episode of Modern Family. This short moment alone, away from the stress of the day, had done her a lot of good. The house had settled into its usual nighttime quiet—air conditioning humming, distant waves somewhere beyond the glass.

A soft knock came at the door. Before she could answer, the door opened. Sarah slipped inside, closing it carefully behind her. She was wearing a different dress than she had that morning, and her hair looked like it had dried shapelessly after getting wet. Her eyes bright with something Y/N couldn’t quite place.

“You okay?” Sarah asked quietly.

Y/N nodded once. “Yeah. Just tired.”

Sarah hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed anyway, twisting her fingers together. That alone told Y/N something was coming.

“…I did something,” Sarah said.

Y/N glanced at her. “That never sounds good when you say it like that.”

Sarah huffed a nervous laugh. “Okay, but hear me out first.”

Y/N sighed and put the body lotion aside. "I'm listening."

“John B and I went to Chapel Hill today.”

Y/N’s eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“To the archives,” Sarah clarified quickly. “Like—actual records. Old land grants. Shipping manifests. Denmark Tanny stuff.”

Y/N straightened a little. “You what?”

“I know, I know,” Sarah rushed. “It sounds insane. But it wasn’t just a whim. There were records. Real ones. His name showed up, Y/N. Denmark Tanny was real.”

Y/N stared at her, heart picking up speed—not fear this time. Curiosity. “You’re serious.”

Sarah nodded. “Dead serious.”

“What did you guys learn?”

She leaned back on her hands, eyes unfocused as she replayed it all. “We found court documents. Property seized. Records tied to the Royal Merchant. Everything lines up.”

Sarah began to tell everything. She described how Denmark Tanny was accused of inciting rebellion, how he bought the land with gold, and the letter he wrote to his son on the day he died.

“What did the letter say?”

“We couldn’t read but John B took a picture of it.”

Y/N swallowed. “So the gold…”

“…could still be out there,” Sarah finished softly.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of it settled between them—not just treasure, but history. Blood. Secrets buried under generations.

Y/N shook her head slowly. “Dad musn’t find out Sarah. He already mad at Rafe.”

“I didn’t tell Dad,” Sarah said flatly. “Obviously.”

“Good.”

Y/N shook her head. “You are unbelievable.”

“I know,” Sarah sighed. Then she glanced sideways at Y/N. “But that’s not all.”

Here it comes.

Sarah’s voice dropped. “We kissed.”

Y/N felt something warm bloom in her chest—joy, excitement, maybe a little dread. “You and John B,” she said carefully.

Sarah nodded. “Just… one kiss..”

“How was it?” Y/N asked, unable to help herself.

Sarah smiled slowly, eyes softening. “It felt right. Terrifying. And right.”

Y/N exhaled. “You know Dad would lose his mind.”

Sarah sighed at her sister's insistence on bringing up their father's opinion in every matter. “I know,” Sarah whispered. “That’s why I’m telling you. Not him. Not Rafe.”

“Good call.”

Sarah leaned closer, resting her head lightly against Y/N’s shoulder. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

Y/N shifted, wrapping an arm around her instinctively. “You’re following your gut. That’s more than most people do.”

Sarah was quiet for a beat. Then: “Are you mad?”

Y/N frowned. “Why would I be mad?”

“Because he’s a Pogue. Because I lied. Because I keep messing things up.”

Y/N shook her head. “You didn’t mess this up.”

She hesitated, then added gently, “Just… be careful. With everything.”

Sarah nodded. “I will.”

They sat like that for a while, the house finally calm again.

“Topper's going to lose his mind,” Y/N giggled. Just picturing his shit-covered face was enough to cheer her up. She looked at her sister for a moment. “You’re gonna get caught by the way.”

Sarah sighed. “Probably.”

“And Topper—”

“I know,” Sarah interrupted. “I know how bad this could get.”

“But?” Y/N pressed.

“But I don’t want to stop,” Sarah said honestly. “Not yet.”

Y/N continued applying her lotion absentmindedly, thinking about what Sarah had said. "But why is John B interested in Denmark Tanny?"

“I think its about his dad.”

“So you felt sorry for him and secretly put him in the archive? Okay, Glinda The Good."

“I don’t want to hear any references from The Wizard of Oz right now.”

“Sorry Glinda, but you are not the only one who had a rough day.”

Sarah leaned forward with interest. In the excitement of the day, she had forgotten to ask her sister how her day had gone. “What happened?”

Y/N looked into her sister's happy eyes. They were practically sparkling with love. This wasn't what she felt when she was with Topper. It was special and beautiful, Y/N could tell. She didn't want to ruin her day by mentioning that a gun had been held to her head.

“Nothing, just the usual things.”

“You know you can tell me everything right Sugar?” Sarah asked while cupping her sister's manicured fingers in her hands. “Like everything, even if you've kissed a Pogue.”

Y/N burst out laughing at what she said and slowly slapped her hand away. “I'm not you.”

“Yeah? You wish bitch.” she said, pushing her sister onto the bed and climbing on top of her. Y/N had already started screaming as Sarah touched the ticklish spots on her lower back.

I love the Camerons' crappy family dramas.

English is not my first language! So please do not hesitate to politely point out if I make a mistake.

I won't be reporting any physical characteristics for Y/N in the story, it's just as it should be.

ɞ Y/N Cameron is trying to escape from her little bubble. Sad inside in this life, unsatisfied, prayin’ and waitin’. Was she meant to feel happy that her life? Was just about to change? Once she cross the line, will she be satisfied?

| JJ x Fem!Reader | chapter 2

Warnings: breathing problems, smut, death, mental health problems, english is not my first language.

Chapter 2 | chapter 1

Morning sunlight spilled across the kitchen, catching on the glass cabinets and turning everything gold. Y/N sat at the chair in her little purple dress, spoon lazily swirling through oatmeal she had no real intention of eating. Her chest still felt tight from the night before—last night’s adrenaline and the ocean wind lingering beneath her ribs.

Ward walked in quietly, the way he always did when he checked on of his daughters before checking on the rest of the world. He paused in the doorway, studying her for a second longer than normal.

“You’re up early, sweetheart,” he said softly. Y/N looked up, startled. Her dear father only used that tone with her. Never with Rafe. Rarely with Sarah. Only her. The fragility of each breath rising from her chest unintentionally compelled his father to speak to her in this way. She hated it.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Y/N murmured.

Ward crossed the kitchen, poured himself a cup of coffee, and then—almost unexpectedly—set his phone aside. That alone told her he was taking her in with full attention.

He sat across from her, elbows resting lightly on the counter. “Rough night?” he asked, voice gentler than she deserved after sneaking in past one in the morning. Of course he knows, thought Y/N. He knows everything. So she decided to not beat around the bush.

Y/N sighed, picking at her nail. “I think everything at Topper’s was… too loud.”

Ward’s expression shifted. Not anger—concern. That pinpointed, immediate kind he only reserved for her health. “Are you short of breath? Now?”

“No,” she said quickly. “No, Dad, I’m okay. I promise.”

He nodded slowly but didn’t entirely believe her. He reached across the table, tilting her chin slightly to study her face.

“Your color’s off,” he murmured. “You should’ve called me if you weren’t feeling well.”

She blinked. “It wasn’t like that.”

“Everything with you is like that,” Ward said quietly, thumb brushing her cheekbone once before dropping his hand. “I worry.”

Y/N looked down at her hands. “Sarah got upset with Topper. And I… I don’t know. I think the whole thing stressed me out.”

Ward’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice controlled. “I’ll speak to Sarah about Topper. If he upset Sarah and you, it won’t happen again.”

“Dad, no—please don’t make it a thing…”

“You’re my daughter. You being distressed is enough to make it a thing.” The warmth in his tone softened the hard edge that usually followed statements like that. Yes, it was protection. But why did Y/N feel like she was having even more trouble breathing? It was as if the bars of her golden cage were getting even thicker.

Now her father was going to confront Topper, and things were going to get even worse. It always did.

After a moment, he stood, walked to the cabinet, and pulled down her inhaler and a small glass of water. “You pushed yourself last night. Don’t do that to me again, please.”

“Okay.”

Ward brushed a light kiss against the top of her head as he passed behind her—almost instinct, almost ritual. “You and Sarah are everything to me, I love you two more than anything.”

He walked back to the table. “I need you to take it easy today. You can come to the club with me later if you’re feeling up to it. If not, you stay here and rest.”

“Dad, I’m not fragile,” she whispered.

Ward gave a soft, quiet laugh as he reached for his coffee. “You don’t see yourself the way I see you,” he said. “And that’s alright. I’ll be careful enough for both of us.”

Her throat tightened.

“Eat a little more,” he added gently. “Humor your old man Sugar.”

Y/N gave him a look. “You’re not old.”

“Well, I feel it every time your brother does something stupid,” he said, smirking, making her laugh for the first time that morning.

It felt normal.

She finished her breakfast with difficulty, after that dropped her little sister Wheezie off at her cello lesson, and then continued on her way to attend to her business. At The Cut, salt air hit her immediately—sharp, humid, alive. The Cut always felt different from Figure Eight. Less polished. Less suffocating. Y/N kinda liked that but not that she would ever admit it.

She was crossing through the boatyard shortcut, looking her pretty brunette friend, when she collided with someone hard enough to make her stumble.

“Whoa—sorry.” A voice, surprised but warm.

She looked up.

JJ Maybank stood in front of her, shirt half-unbuttoned, hands greasy from whatever boat he’d been working on. His blond hair was a mess, sun-bleached and unruly. There was something reckless and careless in his grin—but not cruel.

Y/N blinked. “Oh. It’s you.”

JJ raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Recognition from a Cameron. Should I bow or something?”

She rolled her eyes, smoothing hair behind her ear. “Don’t be dramatic. I just wasn’t looking where I was going.”

“No one ever does when they come through here,” he said, stepping aside to let her pass.

Y/N couldn’t move. Her lungs tightened again—the same squeeze she’d felt last night. She placed a hand subtly on the railing beside her, grounding herself. JJ noticed. He noticed everything, even when he pretended not to.

“You alright?” he asked, less sarcastic this time.

“Fine,” she said quickly. He studied her. Not in the Kook way—judging, measuring—but like he was trying to see past whatever she was hiding.

He let out a short laugh. “You’re such a Cameron. You got that walk—like you’re late for an appointment to judge somebody.”

Her lips twitched. Almost a smile. “You’re not funny.”

“Funny enough, you almost smiled,” he shot back.

Behind him, John B shouted from the dock, “JJ! Dude, quit flirting and help me with this damn toolbox- oh it’s Y/N.”

“Hi John B.” Y/N liked John B. He may have been a Pogue, but he was a good guy, he worked for his father. He might have even stolen a few beers for her.

JJ didn’t even turn around. “I am providing customer service!”

“You don’t work here!” John B yelled.

JJ shrugged at Y/N. “Technicalities.”

“Be careful,” he said, nodding toward her path. “That board is loose. Last week I saw a tourist eat dirt.”

“Thanks,” she said quietly, and suddenly she remembered who she was looking.

“If you see Kiara, could you give these to her?” She pulled a stack of brochures from her bag and handed them to John B.

JJ grabbed one of the brochures and tried to read it. "Turtle hatch danger on the beach-“

“It’s private Maybank.”

“Man, you two are weird.”

“Tell Kiara I made it from recycled paper.”

JJ flipped the brochure in his hands like it was a playing card. “Recycled paper. Very Figure Eight of you,” he teased, but his tone wasn’t biting—just entertained.

“It matters,” Y/N replied, lifting her chin slightly, as if daring him to disagree.

JJ gave a slow nod. “Fair enough. Gotta protect the turtles from all the drunk dudes down here.”

“That includes you,” John B called, already lugging the heavy toolbox toward the side of the dock.

JJ ignored the comment. His eyes stayed on Y/N—not in a weird way, but like her presence threw him off, and he hadn’t quite figured out why.

Y/N took a small step back, adjusting the strap of her bag. She didn’t usually linger around Pogues -except Kiara. Sarah did. She was aware of her sister's slight crush for John B. She wondered what John B thought of Sarah, especially after Topper had almost drowned him to death on the beach.

Before she could force the conversation to end, another voice broke in.

“Y/N Cameron?” Pope Heyward came jogging down the dock holding a clipboard, nearly tripping over a bucket. He looked… stressed. But Pope always looked a little stressed.

“Hey,” Y/N said, relieved to see a familiar face she wasn’t crashing into. She snatched the brochures from John B's greasy hand and handed them to Pope. "Can you give these to Kiara?"

“That was rude.” John B said.

“So rude.”

Pope ignored them and looked at it like she’d just gifted him a fully organized life “Wow. This is… incredibly put together.”

JJ leaned over Pope’s shoulder. “Dude, they have tabs. Tabs.”

She scoffed. “Don’t make fun of me.”

Before he could respond, Pope jogged away, already flipping through the papers. John B called for JJ again, louder this time.

“JJ, I swear, if you don’t help me, I’m throwing this toolbox at your head!”

JJ sighed dramatically. “Slave labor. Pure slave labor.”

“Maybe if you showed up on time—” John B started.

“Details!” JJ shouted back.

He turned once more to Y/N, brushing a streak of grease off his forearm with the back of his wrist. “You headed somewhere?” he asked.

“Yeah. Kook’s stuff,” she replied vaguely.

“Kook’s stuff,” he repeated. It was like a reminder stemming from a friendly conversation that had developed in a moment.. “Right.”

“Yeah.”

He grinned. “Just don’t fall in a hole or jump off anything today, alright? The turtles can’t take the drama.”

Y/N’s mouth twitched again. That almost-smile. “I’ll try.”

She stepped past him, carefully avoiding the loose board he pointed out earlier. The salt wind tugged at her hair, and she heard JJ murmur something to John B before grabbing the toolbox.

She did not look back.

She wouldn’t admit—even to herself—that the moment she walked away, her chest felt lighter.

Just a little.

Y/N finished her stops on The Cut, dropping off brochures, picking up order slips, and checking in with one of the marina vendors. Each time she moved, the tightness in her lungs returned—small pulses of pressure, reminders of how far she had pushed herself in the last twenty-four hours. She ignored each one. She always did.

The afternoon sun had softened now, dipping into a late-day glow. She took the long way back toward the ferry, letting the walk steady her nerves. The Cut wasn’t silent—never was—but compared to Figure Eight, its noise was honest. Boats, gulls, wind against aluminum siding. Not whispers. Not scrutiny.

For a moment, she let herself breathe.

She followed a narrow path behind the marina, one shaded by crooked oaks and crisscrossed with roots. It was quieter here. No workers shouting. No Rafe tossing hatefull eyes at her like grenades. No Ward hovering. Just air—humid, salty, but free.

She rounded the corner near the back of the old fishing warehouse—normally empty this time of day—when a voice slipped out of the shadows behind her. Low. Unhurried.

“Well, look who the tide brought in.”

Barry stepped forward, gold chain glinting against his shirt, expression carved into something between a smirk and a warning.

Her pulse detonated.

He looks like the kind of swagger that screamed wrong side of the island. He wasn’t a Pogue. He wasn’t a Kook. He was something in between—dangerous. Y/N didn’t recognize him at all. But the way he smirked made her stomach twist.

“Afternoon, princess,” he said.

“Oh my God!” she whrimped, instinctively stepping back until her shoulder hit the rusted siding. “I’m not— I don’t know you sir.”

“Sure you do,” he drawled. “You share a last name with the guy who owes me.” He tilted his head, amused. “And unlike your brother, you’re easy to find.”

He showed the gun—not to aim, but to gesture, as if it were nothing more than a prop. YN’s breath hitched when she saw the gun—not raised yet, but very visible, resting casually against his thigh like a casual accessory. Her throat tightened.

“I—I think you’ve got the wrong person—”

“Nah,” he interrupted, pushing off the fence and walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps. “I got exactly the right one. Your brother owes me money. A lot of money. And Rafe Cameron loves to play dumb.”

Y/N took a step back. “I don’t… I don’t know anything about that.”

“Didn’t ask what you know, sweetheart.” He lifted the gun—just a little. Enough to make her knees nearly buckle. “I asked where my money is.”

“I don’t have anything to do with Rafe’s business,” she managed, voice thin. “I swear. Please put that down.”

“Your brother screwed me. Big. And people think twice when the family starts to feel the pressure. I figure a conversation with his little sister might… motivate him.”

Her chest tightened painfully. “My father will kill you if you touch me.”

Barry gave a low, humorless laugh. “Ward Cameron? Please. He doesn’t even know what his own son is doing half the time. And trust me, honey—he’s done worse than anything I’ve got planned.”

Her vision flickered at the edges. Too fast. Too much. The adrenaline spike crashed against her lungs, and she reached instinctively for her inhaler—then realized it was in her car. Far. Far behind her.

Barry noticed the panic like a shark scenting blood.

“Aww. Don’t tell me you’re gonna pass out,” he mocked lightly. “Kooks always act tough until someone takes away the security guards.”

“Please,” she said, breath hitching. “You don’t need to do this. I’ll talk to Rafe. I’ll—”

“Nah. Talking isn’t enough anymore.” Barry’s voice turned edged, cold. “He owes me real money. Real product. And I’ve been patient. But you… you’re leverage.”

He stepped closer.

Y/N pressed herself harder into the metal wall, fingers digging into the rusted grooves. Every breath burned now. Her lungs were collapsing into themselves, each inhale shallow and panicked.

“Are you listening Sharpay?” Barry said sharply. “’Cause I’m only saying this once. You tell Country Club he pays me by tomorrow night. Full amount. Or I finish this conversation with his little sister instead.”

Her blood ran cold. Barry pocketed the gun in one smooth motion—less mercy, more confidence—then leaned toward her until she could smell the cigarette smoke on his shirt.

“Get it done, Princess.”

And with that, he walked away, steps echoing down the empty dock. Y/N slid down the wall the moment he disappeared, pressing a trembling hand over her chest as she fought for air that didn’t want to come. She squeezed her eyes shut.

The message—sharp, final, lethal—sat like a stone in her ribs.

Tomorrow night.

She forced herself to stand, legs unsteady, vision swimming. She needed her inhaler. She needed distance. She needed—she didn’t even know. But she walked anyway, stumbling into the dying gold light of the marina, trying not to shake.

Trying not to break.

Trying not to let Barry’s words echo in her skull.

Tomorrow night.

English is not my first language! So please do not hesitate to politely point out if I make a mistake.

I won't be reporting any physical characteristics for Y/N in the story, it's just as it should be.

ɞ Y/N Cameron is trying to escape from her little bubble. Sad inside in this life, unsatisfied, prayin’ and waitin’. Was she meant to feel happy that her life? Was just about to change? Once she cross the line, will she be satisfied?

| JJ Maybank x Fem!Reader | chapter 1

Warnings: breathing problems, smut, death, mental health problems, english is not my first language.

Chapter 1 | chapter 2

At the party at Topper’s house, the music blasting on the veranda was so loud it had started giving her a headache. Y/N couldn’t grasp what one of Rafe’s snobby friends was rambling about. Was his name Jason or Joshua? She couldn’t remember. He’d been talking for about ten minutes with a beer in his hand, the ice long melted.

“Do you like sports cars?”

“Yes, I guess,” She said, and his face lit up with confidence.

“I pulled a new Porsche into my garage yesterday. If you want, I can take you for a few laps tomorrow, what do you say?”

She leaned in a little to make sure she heard him right. “You got a new car? With your own money?”

“I mean, yeah, technically it’s my dad’s money but-”

“So this thing you’ve been busting my ears with for fifteen minutes is your dad’s money? If that’s the case, come to me tomorrow—I'll take you on a ride in a real sports car. My dad’s way richer than yours.” The moment she finished her sentence, he hurled his beer at the veranda floor. Y/N flinched at the shattering glass.

“Screw you, Cameron, you’re impossible,” he said and shoulder-checked her as he stormed off.

What had I said wrong? The thing he bragged about was his dad’s money. That’s what we Kook kids did, right?

Kelce called from behind her, “How many guys have you scared off today? Dude, you’re gonna die a virgin, Y/N.” He burst into laughter and she wanted to throw her plastic cup at his head.

“Don’t confuse me with yourself, Kelce,” She muttered, but he kept laughing. Y/N ignored him and followed after the boy. To be honest, with his green eyes and brown hair, he was a cute kid, but every time he opened his mouth, the magic vanished. She didn’t want to sleep with a chatterbox. And she definitely wasn’t going to die a virgin.

As she headed upstairs, she saw Rafe somehow making his way inside, drenched in sweat. His orange shirt was so ugly and mismatched she smiled involuntarily. “Hey Rafe!”

“I can’t deal with you right now, Y/N. What do you want?”

“Tell your idiot stoner friends to stop flirting with me,” She said, and this time her brother laughed.

“You should be grateful anyone is flirting with you at all,” he said and poked her furrowed brows with his finger.

“Look who’s talking. Also, with that shirt on, you look like a squashed orange.” She giggled at my own joke. Hideous as it was, the shirt still somehow looked incredible on his sweaty body.

He sighed like his patience had run out and pulled Y/N aside from the crowd. “What are you doing?”

“Do you have cash on you?”

Of course…

“What—why?”

“Stop asking questions, Y/N. If you have cash, just give it to me.”

“You’re out of money? I told you not to buy that motorcycle,” She said, raising her voice a little. He’d bought that bike with the backup generator money dad gave him for the storm, and God knows what he did with the rest.

“Don’t make me repeat myself, Y/N. I’ll give it back in a few days—more than enough.”
She sighed and pulled a few bills from her wallet, placing them in his palm.

“Is that all, Sugar?” he said, eyeing the five hundred dollars I’d handed him. She ignored the nickname. Her family, especially her sister Sarah, had called her that since she was a kid. Even though she wouldn't admit it, she loved that nickname.

“I’m not a bank, Rafe.” He grumbled but shoved the money into his left pocket.

“What are you even going to do with it?”

“Mind your own business, little sister.”

“Hearing that from someone who just begged his little sister for money is so delightful,” she said and handed him a napkin that she pulled from my skirt pocket

“Also, why are you so sweaty?” He didn’t answer. Just rolled his eyes and walked off toward the living room. The party was incredibly crowded. It looks like Topper invited everyone in Figure 8.

A group she couldn’t fully place called out, “Hey Y/N, come swim with us!” from below. As if Topper even knew everyone here, but whatever. She peeled off her tulle top and skirt. Voices rose from the crowd watching her. She couldn’t help but grin. She kicked off her shoes and the entire villa erupted into chants of “Jump!” “Jump!” “Jump!”

Carefully, Y/N stepped onto the edge of the veranda. She just take a little breathe and jumped into the pool from meters above.

It was amazing.

When she resurfaced, the shouting continued. Laughing, Y/N pulled herself out onto the marble. She hadn’t struggled to breathe or panicked at all. If her dad knew she did this, he’d die of a heart attack.

As she walked across the marble floor, water streamed down her legs in a thin ribbon. The lights in the backyard flashed overhead, and people’s screams, laughter, and clinking glasses all blurred together. For a moment, it felt like the world had slowed around her. The coolness of the water dissolved the pressure in Y/N chest—if only for a minute.

Then the feeling returned. That faint burning in her lungs…

“Y/N! Are you insane? This isn’t some Triller party where you film your little vlogs!”

“Relax, Top, I didn’t die,” She said, pushing her wet hair back. Her tulle top clung to her like a soaked fish, but she pulled it on anyway. “I added some fun to your party. It was boring.”

But the adrenaline felt so good… Even if breathing was still hard, it was worth it.

She stepped back onto the veranda, the crowd parted like she still carried that same jump energy. “You’re crazy!” people yelled, and she laughed. She tugged her skirt back on and before that, squeezed some water out of it, feeling a tremor run through her—not from cold or exhaustion.

Topper hadn’t left her alone; he handed her a drink he’d sloppily poured. Of course Y/N took it and took a few fast gulps. Whatever he handed her was strong.

“Slow down, champ. The drinks aren’t going anywhere,” he said, sitting beside her.

“Your stunt was great, Sugar. You really flew.”

She laughed hysterically. “Why are you hovering around me? Where’s Sarah?” She asked and just noticing her absence. Her sister wasn’t there.

Topper shifted uncomfortably.

“You two fought? What did you do?” She asked, standing up.

Topper threw the towel he was holding at the girl's face. “Sarah did something, not me. Tell your sister to figure out what she wants. We’re not playing games anymore,” he said and walked away before she could respond.

She stared after Topper as he disappeared. A sharp pain ran down her chest, from both her breathing and his words. Every time Sarah vanished, something was wrong. And the look on Topper’s face when he said “She needs to decide what she wants”… As if he’d spat out something he’d bottled up for weeks.

Great. Another drama.

She grabbed the drink Topper left on the table and chugged the rest. The alcohol ran down her throat like fire. Meanwhile, that tightness in her chest was growing. Her breaths were shallow, but no one noticed. But anyway, she didn’t want them to. If they noticed, she would feel like she was drowning for real.

The moment Y/N stepped onto the terrace, warm air hit her face. People danced, glasses clinked, and rich kids whispered secrets behind locked doors. The whole house was the most expensive version of teenage chaos.

But right now, she was only looking for one person.

Sarah.

She pushed through the crowd. Shoulders slammed into hers, someone spilled their drink, but she didn’t care. Water dripped down her ankles, leaving marks on the marble floor, but no one cared.

Two voices crashed inside Y/N’s head:

Where is Sarah?
Breathe, Y/N. Deep breaths.
Did Topper do something to her?
Breathe, Y/N.
Where is she?
Take a deep breath, she’s not going anywhere.
Sarah, where are you?
Breathe Sugar. Just breathe.
I need you.

But even when she inhaled deeply, the air felt like mud in her lungs.

At the top of the stairs she saw Rafe. Leaning against the armless chair, digging in his bag like he was looking for something, watching the room with sharp eyes. He looked wired. His eyes were red, his gaze wild—but alert. Like a maniac trying very hard to act normal. He wasn’t looking at her yet, but he would. She hesitated.

She didn’t want him seeing her like this. Because right now, while frantically searching for Sarah, she herself seemed maniac too, but of course, he did.

His eyes narrowed a little when they locked gazes. That, “What did you do this time, Y/N?” expression was painfully familiar.

“I saw Topper,” She said despite Rafe saying nothing. Her voice came out crackly. “He said Sarah’s upset.”

Running around the whole house looking for her sister had worn her down. Her wet clothes clung to her, making Y/N nauseous. “I can’t deal with Topper’s dramas, Rafe.”

“This isn’t Topper’s drama,” he said slowly. “It’s Sarah’s. Your sister is acting like a slut.”

Her steps faltered and he noticed. His eyes scanned Y/N from her complexion to breathing—like he was reading her sister’s insides. It pissed her off. “Watch your mouth,” she said, trying to steady her voice. “I didn’t know they fought. Where is Sarah?”

Rafe paused. “She walked right past you. Went to the back beach.” A beat. “She was crying after Topper. I’m sick of both of your whiny brat asses.”

“What? How did I not see her?”

“Because you were throwing yourself off the veranda and trying to die in the middle of a party,” he said, mocking but harsh. Almost like he wished she had died. Y/N recoiled at the thought. Rafe was strange, yes; he didn't like Sarah or her, but would he go so far as to wish for their deaths? She didn't even want to think about it.

“No one died, Rafe.”

“For now.” His tone made her throat tighten. She turned away to regain herself. She didn’t want to talk to him anymore, but Rafe didn’t look well either.

“Are you okay?”

“Please get the hell away from me, Y/N.” This time she listened. Her sister mattered more than him. Whatever he had in that bag, she wasn’t asking—he shoved it in his pocket anyway.

She didn’t run to the beach, but she walked fast. She needed a moment. They both did, but her steps grew quicker on their own. The pressure in her lungs worsened. As she passed through the corridor leading to the back beach, the crowd noise faded. The music became a muffled hum. When she stepped outside, the wind hit her face. Her feet slid through cold sand.

Sarah was really there. Barefoot, toes buried in the sand. She was hugging her arms, staring at the ocean. She looked alone. This image was enough to upset Y/N. When she called her name, Sarah turned. “Y/N?”

“What happened, Sarah?” She asked nervously. “What are you doing here all alone?”

Sarah was about to answer her but when she looked at Y/N’s face, her expression shifted. Sarah’s teary look turned into concern. Her makeup was smudged, and she was soaking wet. All her clothes were clinging to her. Sarah could see her bra and her face was bright red. How many drinks had she had? “What happened to you? You look like you got jumped.”

“I fell into the pool—”

“Oh, stop lying,” she laughed. “I saw you jump off the roof.” Y/N laughed too as I sat beside her. After a few giggles, there was a moment of silence. Both of them listened quietly to the sea.

“You looked like you were having fun.” Sarah said.

“When I got out of the pool I thought I was gonna die. I couldn’t breathe. I’m not doing it again,” Y/N said easily. She could only talk about this with her sister.

“I hated it that, but I won’t lecture you,”

“I was looking for you everywhere.” Y/N said softly.

Sarah took a sip of her beer. “I had a… problem with Topper.”

“Oh? What happened?”

“I told him I was ready. On the terrace. It felt like the right moment but when we started… I didn’t feel good. I pulled away.”

“Did he force you? What happened—”

“No,” she cut her off quickly. “He didn’t force me, but he got really mad. He stormed off and won’t look at me.”

“You should break up with him, you know?” Her words hung in the air. Sarah didn’t move, but she felt her hold her breath. Her shoulder tensed, but Y/N didn’t let go. The wind blew harder, their hair tangling.

“I know,” she finally whispered. “I just… he’s been in my life for so long. I don’t know what to do.”

Sarah lifted her head and looked at Y/N. Her eyes were puffy—she had definitely been crying. Seeing her like that hurt Y/N.

“Sarah, just not feeling right about something is enough reason. You don’t have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable. Especially not for someone who doesn’t deserve you.”

They sat quietly for a while. The waves filled the silence, speaking for both of them. She stared at the water, face tightening as she sank deeper into her thoughts.

“I wish it were that easy,” Sarah whispered.

“It isn’t,” Y/N admitted. “But the right thing is usually the hardest.”

Sarah pressed her lips together. After a moment, she handed beer to Y/N, she smiled and took a sip. Her rose-red cheeks probably would get worse. The cold spread through Y/N, making her feel heavier—but Sarah’s warmth beside her balanced it. It always did.

“Y/N…” she suddenly said, this time more serious. “I didn’t like what you did before, at the roof.”

She groaned, pulling away. “Stop talking like dad, Sarah. Nothing happened.” Sarah opened her mouth to argue but stayed quiet. She knew tonight had been rough for both of them. Sarah knew that their shallow lives were draining her and her sister's energy. Adapting was becoming increasingly difficult with each passing day. Jumping into the pool was just a fleeting escape for a few seconds. Y/N wanted to feel alive with pushing the limits of her breath.

Sarah noticed Y/N's increasing breathing problems, even though her sister didn't mention it. She noticed the growing pile of medication on the nightstand after each hospital visit. It was eating her up inside. But she wasn't going to press the issue; she was waiting for Y/N to come and talk to her. Their father was already quite protective of Y/N, and Sarah didn't want to smother her.

“Topper threw a towel at me.” She said and Sarah rolled her eyes, though worry colored her voice. “Why do you still try talking to him?”

“Because he acts like a pest,” Y/N shrugged. “When he’s tired of you, he takes it out on me.”

Sarah smiled slightly and shook her head. “You overthink everything.”

“And you think too little.” Their laughter blended together—a lightness they hadn’t felt in over an hour. Sarah rested her head back on Y/N’s shoulder, finally calm.

“I’ll talk to Topper,” she said firmly. “But not today.”

“That much I figured. Today’s not your day.” As waves crashed along the shore, they both fell silent again. But this silence didn’t suffocate them, it soothed them.

“Tonight… we’re just going to breathe.”

Y/N closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Breathing feels good.”

Sarah grabbed her hand. “I’m here,” she said, letting her voice be carried by the wind. “Always.”

Y/N nodded and squeezed her hand gently. “I know. I love you, Sarah. You and me, forever.”

“You and me, Sugar, forever.”

English is not my first language! So please do not hesitate to politely point out if I make a mistake.

I won't be reporting any physical characteristics for Y/N in the story, it's just as it should be.

ɞ Someone like Y/N Kent has to find her true self, not just with the strength of a hero, but by walking the fine line between the light and darkness within. Because at the end of the day the wicked die alone. And for Y/N to die alone means all of humanity dies with her.

| Richard Grayson x Fem!Reader | chapter 3

Warnings: bl!!d, k!lling, mental health, slightly jason todd x reader, smut, english is not my first language.

Chapter 3 | chapter 2 , chapter 1

The bright lights of Metropolis disappeared behind her shrinking one by one. While the whole city was asleep, a storm was raging inside Y/N. The effect of this dream echoing in her chest would not dissipate.

Seeing Dick's dream… Witnessing his greatest pain, his darkest moment, even if unintentionally…

This was a limit she could not cross. It gave her a great conflict within herself: She wanted to tell him everything, share his burden, but at the same time she knew that she was violating Dick's privacy. She couldn't forgive herself for this.

Y/N had never told anyone about her dreams except her family. How could he say that anyway? How could she tell Damian that she saw his most private moments when he was just starting to respect her?

The clouds hanging over the city skyline were gloomy, befitting the Blüdhaven atmosphere. Blüdhaven was not as gloomy as Gotham, but it still contained a loneliness in the shadows of the seedy streets of the city.

Dick always say this city was worth fighting for. According to him, the city held hope because people were essentially good inside them. Bad men, especially corrupt police, were destroying this city.

Even at this time of night, Y/N was sure Dick would be on patrol. He was always working. He was giving his whole self for the city, for the people.

When she arrived at Blüdhaven, she immediately noticed a figure moving in the shadows. His eyes and movements were familiar. It was a fast, agile and deadly dance as always. But Y/N had known him for a very long time. There was fatigue behind these movements.

Instead of going directly there, she first hovered over the city for a bit. Maybe she should have given up.

But she couldn't.

When Dick stood on the roof of a tall building and started watching something carefully, Y/N slowly descended to the roof.

Y/N said with a slight smile, crossing her arms over her chest as she looked at those broad shoulders of Dick. "You look tired, Grayson."

Dick "Fuck!" he shouted loudly and reflexively quickly took out his escrima sticks. But when he looked at the owner of the voice, the expression on his face was mixed with surprise and concern. "Y/N? What are you doing here?"

Y/N paused for a moment before answering. She averted her eyes and bit her lips. Dick knew immediately that something was wrong, so he tried to warm things up as he took a few steps closer to her. "Are you tired of patrolling Metropolis?"

Y/N smiled slightly, but there was still a shadow in her eyes. "I needed to take a breath," she said, sounding more tired than usual.

Studying her face, Dick wondered if she ever slept. The under eyes had become more prominent. "Are you just here to breathe, or did something else happen?"

Y/N stole a glance. "I thought I could help lower Blüdhaven's crime rate a little."

Dick tilted his head. "You know me, Y/N. I can tell when you're hiding something." Y/N hated how good he was at reading people.

Y/N took a deep breath, feeling how the wind cooled the night. For a moment she wanted to tell everything. Dick's past, that terrible night she dreamed of, the pain he experienced as a child… But she couldn't do it. Because if she told, it might shake Dick's trust in her. It was as if she had witnessed his most intimate moments and deepest pain.

"It's no big deal," she said finally.

Dick gently held her chin and made her look at him. "I know something happened." He whispered. "Tell me."

That voice… Should Y/N melt into that soft touch or his voice? It was already hard not to throw herself into his arms.

Y/N looked away. "It's quieter here. Sometimes… it's easier to be alone."

Dick continued to look at her face. "But you don't want to be alone, do you?"

Y/N paused for a moment, then took a deep breath and spoke. "Sometimes you don't realize how the past catches up with you, right? You have a dream or a moment comes and everything piles up on you."

Dick remained silent but then ask. "Did you dream? Was it like some kind of nightmare?"

"Kinda."

Dick noticed how difficult she was talking. He decided that this was not something that could be handled on the roof and he gripped her waist tightly.

Y/N jumped from the sudden contact. "What are you doing?" Before she could say it, she was interrupted by Dick jumping off the roof.

"I'm taking you home."

"You know I can fly, right?" She asked and didn't bother suppressing her laughter when Dick leapt into another building with her.

"You can't deny that you didn't enjoy this." Said Dick as he matched her laughter. "Besides, you don't know where I live."

Instead of paying attention to what he was saying, Y/N was too busy having fun with Dick taking her from rooftop to rooftop. It was like flying on his father's back when she was little.

And soon the Dick stopped in front of an apartment. Y/N had wished the little excursion had lasted a little longer but she didn't comment. "Do you live here?"

Dick nodded before encouraging her to walk ahead. "After you, ma'am."

Y/N felt her heart warming at Dick's efforts to comfort her and walked through the door he opened. When she entered, she was greeted with dim lights and deep silence. Dick's house was worse than she thought.

The air in the house was heavy, as if he had been trapped in loneliness for years. The dim light surrounded the room like a ghost; The middle of the hall was collapsed, sheets were scattered everywhere, there were a few old photographs hanging on the walls, coffee mugs thrown in a corner and scattered documents. Dick was using the place not as a home, but as a shelter.

"Do you live here?" she asked, shocked.

Dick sheepishly put his hand behind his neck. "I know it's a bit messy."

He laughed when he saw Y/N continuing to look at him in shock. "What is that face?"

Y/N rolled her eyes and put her hands on her hips. "This is more than a little messy. Does a ghost live here or is it Dick Grayson?"

Dick smiled. "I spend my nights chasing criminals on the street, keeping the house in order is not really my priority."

Y/N rolled her eyes again and snapped her fingers. Purple energy swirled in the air like a whirlpool, and the items began to gather themselves together. The sofa was straightened, the coffee mugs floated into the kitchen, the mess on the floor settled into place. In a few seconds, the room was completely transformed.

Dick watched, fascinated. "Thats amazing."

Y/N glared at him. "Seriously, you could try harder."

"Please forgive me, ma'am, I will make this place spotless until your next visit." he said, leaning down. Looks like he was on his showmanship personality tonight.

Just as she was about to sit on the sofa, a dog barking echoed in the house.

"My god!" Y/N shouted and ran towards the dog. "You had a dog?"

"It's only been a week. I saved her from the thugs on the street. I call her Haley, but she probably won't stay here."

Y/N looked at him mockingly. "We both know that this is her home now." she said, sitting on the sofa with the little dog on her lap. Dick got up to change, leaving the two of them on the couch.

Haley closed her eyes after smelling Y/N's hand. She made a slight growling sound, a sign of comfort and trust. Y/N felt her heart soften for a moment. It felt oddly warming for Dick to have someone greet him like that when he came home. She didn't want him to live alone in this empty place.

She sighed as she continued to pet the little dog. "Man I miss Krypto."

When Dick returned a few minutes later after changing his clothes, he smiled slightly when he saw Y/N with the dog. "I think you're more attached to her than I am."

"I love animals." she said and smiled as if she had just thought of it. "Did you know Damian adopted another dog?"

Dick frowned in horror. "How many animals does he have?"

Y/N shrugged. "I stopped counting after those two cows." When she said that, they both laughed.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Do you have coffee?"

"If you think I'm going to make you drink coffee, you're wrong. You look like the Corpse Bride with those eyes." When he said Haley barked as if to confirm him.

"I haven't been able to sleep lately." she muttered as she settled further into the couch. After pouring water for the tea, Dick sat down next to her on the sofa.

"Are you having a nightmare?" he asked to understand her.

"Stuff like that." When she said that, they both fell silent. Y/N looked at Dick as she hugged the tiny being in her arms. She tried not to get flustered while those deep blue eyes were watching her from the beginning. She felt somehow at peace when she was around him. At that moment, she remembered why she had come here from Metropolis.

One of Dick's fingers, roaming Haley's torso, made contact with Y/N's hand. "Is it your dreams that brought you here?"

Y/N nodded. She felt like a little child. She moved his pinky finger towards Dick's pinky finger. "My dreams are not my own." she muttered.

The way Dick looked at her encouraged her, so she continued. She had come this far, whatever was going to happen, happened. "I can see other people's worst nightmares. Or someone's death."

Dick's expression changed as he tried to fully digest the words. The surprise on his face was replaced by deep thought. His ocean blue eyes were locked on Y/N's face; He was analyzing, trying to understand.

This was something he didn't know. He had heard a lot about Y/N's abilities. She could keep a collapsed building standing. By surrounding her body with a wave of energy, she could block all bullets. But this… this was something completely different.

"Other people's nightmares?" he repeated, his voice low and careful.

Y/N pressed her lips together, suddenly realizing that talking about this topic she had brought up was harder than she expected. Having Dick look at her so intently made her feel a little more vulnerable.

"Yes," She murmured. "It's not just dreams. Past… Future… I don't even know how it works. It just happens."

A muscle moved in Dick's face. “That's why you're here.”

Y/N looked away. She sighed as she ran her fingers through Haley's soft fur. "Yes," she said at last. "Tonight… I saw you."

Dick's body tensed involuntarily. Even at that moment, he was trying to control his reaction, but Y/N knew him enough to notice.

"Me?"

Y/N nodded. "When you were a child… That night."

Dick's pupils narrowed. That night. When that night was mentioned, everyone knew which night they were talking about. In a public arena, in the middle of Gotham's most famous circus, the night that changed Dick Grayson's life forever…

When Y/N saw that he wasn't saying anything, she continued. "I don't know if I should tell you this. I just…wanted you to know that. Because I care about you."

Dick's eyes were fixed on her, but the storm inside his was clearly evident. The first Robin, who grew up alongside Batman years ago, became one of the strongest heroes, but some wounds never healed.

There was silence for a while. Y/N waited for him to say anything, but Dick just turned his face away. He remained completely silent for a few seconds, seemingly lost in his thoughts.

Y/N sighed, "If you don't want to talk about it—"

"What kind of dream was it?"

Dick's voice was softer than she expected. When Y/N looked at him, she could see that Dick was still reliving that night in his mind. So she couldn't lie to him.

"There was blood," she said slowly. "Voices… The screams of the crowd… But I remember you the most."

Dick's jaw tightened but he said nothing.

"You were standing in the middle of the stage," Y/N continued, her voice trailing off. "Your legs were shaking, your eyes were fixed on the lifeless bodies of your mother and father. And then, a voice…"

Dick tilted his head slightly, as if reliving that moment in his head.

"When I saw that…I understood you," Y/N sighed. "Why you are who you are… Why you fight for Blüdhaven, every night, every time."

Dick didn't speak for a long time. Y/N realized that he didn't know how to process this. Maybe it was too much. Maybe she should never have told him.

Dick turned to her. "That's why you looked sad," He said with a slight smile. "For me."

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Of course I'm sorry for you, Grayson. You are my…"

Her sentence hung in the air. Y/N didn't know what to say. Dick tilted his head as if he understood what she was trying to say.

But then Dick bowed his head and laughed quietly.

"What?" Y/N asked in surprise.

Dick shook his head. "For you to feel guilty about something like that… It's just like your thing."

The familiar smile on Dick's face was back, but this time there was sadness in it. He stared at her for a few seconds, then pulled Y/N close to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

As Y/N felt the warmth of Dick's shoulder, she realized that the storm inside her was slowly calming down. She had finally shared this secret that she had kept inside her for so long, and what she feared had not happened. Dick didn't shut her out, didn't get angry, didn't even run away. Instead, he accepted her existence and chose to get closer to her.

As the silence dragged on, even Haley continued to sleep silently in Y/N's lap, as if realizing the sacredness of this moment. Y/N could feel Dick's breath on his shoulder, steady and calm.

"What kind of talent is this?" murmured Dick at last. "How do you deal with this?"

Y/N smiled, but she had a bitter feeling. "I can't handle it," She admitted. "Seeing people's deepest fears, losses, pain… Feeling like I have experienced them… Sometimes I even forget who I am."

Dick lifted his head a little and looked at her. His ocean blue eyes were shining with concern. "So you didn't share this with anyone?"

Y/N shook her head. "Except for my family… No. Mom and dad know that I sometimes have nightmares, but they don't know the details. "I couldn't tell Jon because I didn't want to scare him."

Dick bowed his head slightly. "And you told me."

Y/N looked at his face. "Yes."

Dick bit his lips to keep from smiling, but eventually gave up. "This made me feel special."

Y/N rolled her eyes. "Don't make this a joke, Grayson."

Dick laughed, his voice echoing around the room like a soft melody. But there was something else behind his smile; that slight resentment that he always tries to hide, but never disappears from his eyes…

"I'm serious," he said. "Thank you for telling me this."

Y/N looked at him sideways. "Didn't you find me strange?"

Dick shrugged. "I already knew you are weird. This just added another item to the list." They laughed when he said. As the night slowly passed away, Y/N could feel her eyes closing.

Dick's smile softened a bit when he noticed Y/N's eyelids starting to feel heavy. Watching her fall asleep next to him like that, feeling so comfortable… it felt strangely warm inside.

Haley was curled up further in Y/N's lap, breathing peacefully. Y/N looked at Dick one last time before closing her eyes completely. Her eyes were tired, but there was a little peace in them.

"You can sleep," Dick said in a low voice. "You are safe here."

Y/N opened her lips to respond, but her eyes closed before the words came out. Dick watched her face for a moment. This girl, who was normally used to standing strong, was now completely defenseless and peaceful.

Dick slowly pulled the blanket from the edge of the couch and placed it over Y/N. He smiled when Haley stirred and gently brushed her tail over her little hand.

He didn't want to ruin this moment. But in the back of his mind, what Y/N had told him continued to echo.

"I can see other people's worst nightmares. Or someone's death."

This sentence stirred something inside Dick. Y/N's powers were even heavier than he expected. Witnessing people's darkest moments, feeling their pain… How could she handle this?

He couldn't wait to ask this, but not tonight. Tonight, for the first time, Y/N seemed to feel safe.

Dick slowly sat up, moving a little closer to the couch, careful not to wake Y/N. Her face was peaceful, but her pretty eyebrows were slightly furrowed, as if she was still thinking about something even in her dreams.

Dick lowered his head and whispered in a low voice:

"What else have you seen, beautiful?"

Y/N stirred slightly but didn't wake up. Dick sighed and ran his fingers through her hair. No matter what, he wouldn't pressure her. She had to tell him this when she wanted to.

Just the fact that she fell asleep like that was a sign of trust in itself, right?

No matter how hard Dick resisted, fatigue eventually caught up with him. He leaned his head back against the back of the sofa, closed his eyes, and tried to quiet his mind for a moment. Y/N's steady breathing sounded like a lullaby to his ears along with the silence of the night.

There were no more patrols tonight. Tonight Blüdhaven could wait for them, for her.

Tonight Dick Grayson was more at peace than ever.

It was one of the best chapters I've ever written. I told you guys it would be worth the wait.

ɞ Someone like Y/N Kent has to find her true self, not just with the strength of a hero, but by walking the fine line between the light and darkness within. Because at the end of the day the wicked die alone. And for Y/N to die alone means all of humanity dies with her.

| Richard Grayson x Fem!Reader | chapter 2

Warnings: bl!!d, k!lling, mental health, slightly jason todd x reader, smut, english is not my first language.

Chapter 2 | Chapter 1 , Chapter 3

Even as a child, I felt that my power was not something ordinary. When I was scared, excited, or saw something bad in my dreams, the purple energy surrounding me would often erupt uncontrollably. This power would sometimes lift the objects around me into the air, and sometimes it would turn into a wave of energy that even my father could barely suppress. This was only the surface of the powers growing within me, and as I grew older I found these powers becoming more complex and intense.

The first serious incident happened when I was six years old. It was the time of the big hurricane that hit Smallville.

I was just watching out the window when my grandmother warned me not to go out. The sky was black as coal and the wind bent the trees. I could hear farm animals screaming. My heart was beating too fast to fit into a small cage in my chest. Purple energy surrounded me as I clenched my hands into tight fists.

And then… the hurricane changed direction.

Did I do it voluntarily? No. But I released my energy in panic, and it changed even nature's direction.

What happened next was scary. The tornado headed out of Smallville. But it didn't stop there. It moved further away, to a larger town. I didn't even realize what I had done until it was shown on the news the next day. Although no one was injured with the help of the heroes, hundreds of people were left homeless.

“Did I do this?” I asked my father.

He held me in his arms, ruffled my hair, and gave me an evasive answer.

I was only six years old. But that night, I learned that my power could not only be a gift, but also a curse.

As I approached adolescence, my powers became more intense and complex. Now I not only had purple energy shields, but I could also influence the thoughts and emotions of the people around me. I could change the atmosphere in a room, often without even realizing it.

This situation caused problems, especially at school. One day, my own emotions spiraled out of control when I heard my friend yelling angrily. A wave of energy exploded in the classroom and books and pencils flew into the air. When such situations occurred in the laboratory, the results were even more annoying.

"Dad, why am I doing this? Why am I scaring people?"

I had so many incidents like this that I stopped counting. This was just the surface of the power growing within me.

And as always, my father would hold me in his arms and speak in a soft voice. "Y/N, these powers are a part of you and it can take time to control them. Everyone makes mistakes. I understand, these powers scare you, but you can control them. I know that. Just breathe and feel them. Don't be afraid to accept your powers as a part of you."

And he was right, When I turned 15, I was finally starting to take control of my powers. I was on patrol in Metropolis with my father and Kara. I was saving people and protecting the city. As I realized how great my powers were, I learned to channel them better. But the real problem started when I turned 17.

I was having dreams.

At first it was ordinary things. I saw a man fall on the bridge. The next day I learned on the news that the same bridge had collapsed.

Then I saw worse things.

I could see past and future events. One night I was watching children die in the middle of World War II, the next night I was seeing an assassination plot planned against a random politician.

When I turned 18, I started having other people's worst nightmares. While Bruce Wayne's parents were being murdered, I stood at the corner of the street like a ghost, watching the whole event. And I couldn't do anything.

One day "Sometimes writing is the best way to sort through the confusion you're feeling," Lois said to me and gave me a notebook. Since then, I have been writing down even the smallest dream I had.

And tonight I was a spectator who came to watch the acrobats at the circus. I knew exactly where I was. I knew exactly what would happen.

But I couldn't stop it.

So, as I sat in my seat, I waited patiently for the Flying Graysons' show to begin. Amidst the applause, they stretched out their hands. They smiled. And then… the acid-soaked ropes broke.

I was there and couldn't do anything.

As screams flew through the air, the small figure next to the blood-covered couple broke all my stamina. As soon as I got up from where I was sitting, I started running.

I stood in front of him as all the pain of the little body left behind filled my mind. His face was laced with shock, but that didn't mean there weren't any tears flowing. Even though I reached out to wipe the tears from his ocean blue eyes, my hand passed over his face as if it were just air.

"Y/N?"

I started to shake. "Dick?" This time, although I tried to touch his shoulder while muttering, he passed through me as if I were a spirit while he was being carried away from the scene.

"Wake up!"

"Dick!" I shouted this time.

"Y/N, wake up!" As I woke up screaming, this time the blue eyes looking at me belonged to my father, not Dick. It was like I wandered into the spirit world. As I took deep breaths, my father adjusted my pillow and encouraged me to sit up a little straighter.

"Are you okay?"

I took the a glass of water he offered me. My throat was in knots. "Just a dream, just like any other."

"What did you see?" I raised my eyebrows when he asked. It almost made me laugh when he asked me what I saw, as if I hadn't screamed Dick's name.

"I know." he smiled. The notebook Lois gave me was sitting next to my bed. My father looked at it but didn't say anything.

For a while we both did nothing but sit in silence. And finally I couldn't stand it and got out of bed. I didn't want to sleep any more tonight. I was still in my pajamas, but thanks to the wave of purple energy surrounding me, I was now in my costume.

"Y/N." My father warned. He didn't like me patrolling alone, but I wasn't a 15-year-old kid anymore. I was 22 years old and had gone on dozens of missions alone. While Superman was away, I prevented many events in Metropolis and saved hundreds of people.

"I need this. I'll be fine, you don't have to worry." I said and after looking at his worried face for the last time, I jumped out of the window and disappeared into the lights of the city.

I needed to see someone.

English is not my first language! So please do not hesitate to politely point out if I make a mistake.

Next chapter we're really getting started. Please feel free to express your thoughts!